


Will to Live

by MaryDragon



Series: The Pillars of Creation [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU, Accidental Ships, All the Origins, Alternate Origins, Bull's Chargers, Denerim, Dragon Age Quest: War Table Operation(s), Friends of Red Jenny, Gen, Guest Author, Highever, Mages and Templars, Mahariel is Dead tho, Modern Character in Thedas, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Personality Crisis, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Spoilers, Templar Abuses, Unreliable Narrator, all the inquisitors, alternate POV, lying liars who lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 186,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William McIntire was uprooted from his life in modern-day New England the same way as everyone else: the city he was living in went up in smoke. For Will, however, the story took a different turn.<br/>Companion piece to <i>Keep to the Stars</i>. Begins at the end of Dragon Age: Origins. </p><p>There will be spoilers here for Gwen's story arc in KttS.</p><p>(NOW WITH ART)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seeing Stars

**Author's Note:**

> With a huge thanks to Grimmcake for the cover art!  
> ...I finally got it posted when Eisen reblogged the hi-res version. So thanks to Eisen for helping a girl out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Prologue*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't want to be spoiled AT ALL then you should put off reading this story until you're AT LEAST past Chapter 52 (the fourth chapter of part 3) of Keep to the Stars.

I hadn’t thought of it in eight damn years.

At first I would have thought that was impossible. You don’t just forget where you came from. You don’t blank out the memories of your parents, the girl you were going to marry, the best friend you hadn’t been apart from since you were five years old on the kindergarten playground and you swore to be blood brothers, even without the foggiest idea what that meant.

But then again, I was operating under extenuating circumstances.

“What the actual fuck,” Siren declared, staring at the bundle slung over the Herald’s shoulder.

“Fell out of a portal,” Adaar replied with a shrug. “I figured she deserved better treatment than I got when it happened to me.”

That earned her a few nervous chuckles and a lot of averted eyes. She’d brought the Chargers along for emergency backup on the quest to Redcliffe to meet with the rebel mages. It seemed she hadn’t needed us, but we didn’t mind the trip. There’d been bears and maleficarum and random nutjob Templars roving the roads between Haven and the seat of power in the Hinterlands, not to mention the ever present bandits and even something that looked like it could have been a mercenary company someday.

If it hadn’t run into us, that was.

The trip back promised to be even more boring, with a small army of mages following along in our wake. The chances of anything tangling with us was only slightly higher than a snowball’s chance in Hell.

Maybe that was the thought that prompted everything falling apart, but I hadn’t used the word _Hell_ , not even in the depths of my mind, in the better part of a decade. And something about that swirl of memory made me glance up at the woman Hellen Adaar had slung across her lap on the massive forder she’d been given by Horsemaster Dennett.

From where I was standing, in my hard-earned spot at Krem’s right hand, all I could see were the woman’s feet dangling off the saddle.

They were clad in black-and-white chuck taylors, the circular _All Star_ emblem on the ankle, shoe-laces the almost-too-bright white of new nylon that simply did not exist in Thedas.

_She’s here_ , the thought thundered through my consciousness, and everything I had worked for vanished in a heartbeat.

_She’s here_ , my mind repeated over and over again.

I didn’t need to see anything else. Her face, her voice, her _hooded fucking sweatshirt_ were all superfluous. I knew what she was better than she probably did.

Hellen Adaar had been trying to shrug free of the title of _Herald_ since it had been slung onto her already-overburdened shoulders the day she stabilized the Breach with that mark on her hand. And somehow, even that hadn’t brought the memories of my former life roaring back into my consciousness like the size-four men’s converses hanging limply in the air thirty paces in front of me. The grey patterned soles broadcast Hellen’s retirement from the role of _Herald_ in a language only I could read.

I had to remind myself to breathe.

Nobody here knew that the shoes that had been on my feet the day I touched Thedosian soil for the first time were made of the same pressed rubber. Nobody knew I had been born with an American name, in a little town not far from Lake Ontario. For eight years, it had been forgotten even by me.

_She’s here_ , I thought again, and worked to keep the expression on my face neutral.

I had this life, this second chance, this new family and new sense of purpose, for one reason.

I’d made a promise; cut a deal on the day the world ended.

The bill had just come due.


	2. September 25, 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea here is to work back towards the Prologue and eventually eclipse it. This is not a flashback, but the true beginning to the story. We will follow Will's progression linearly.

The ring was burning a hole in my pocket.

I’d had it for three weeks. I’d made the mistake of picking it out, getting it sized, and picking it up before actually making the reservation at the restaurant. The whole _not checking her work schedule_ put another wrench in the works. By the time we found a day that worked for both her and the restaurant, I’d spent three long Friday nights at home gazing at the diamond I wished would be on Cindy’s hand.

The elevator was taking _forever_. I stared at the LED blinking at me on the _up_ button, and considered just taking the stairs.

I didn’t, because in the end that would take longer, and I’d sweat through my jacket and be a damn mess by the time Cindy arrived. Burning off the adrenaline would be nice, but it wasn’t worth it.

 _Ding_.

I checked my impatience, waiting for the doors to open fully and being sure the elevator was empty before dashing in. I tapped my foot as the doors slid open, paused for an elderly gentleman to stroll out, and stepped lightly in, hitting the button for the revolving restaurant at the top of the skyscraper.

I was ten minutes early, but our table was ready and the hostess seated me. I put in an order for a bottle of wine – god bless the T, I didn’t have to drive home – and settled in to check my phone every thirty seconds until Cindy arrived.

The table was perfect, with a view of the thunderstorm rolling in from the south. The lightning was jumping from cloud to cloud, and I’d never gotten to watch a storm from a height.

Cindy was from Oklahoma City originally, and had this crazy love affair with storms. Her favorite story was how she and her dad had run from the tornado that hit OKC when she was a kid.

In spite of my patience in _not_ running up dozens of flights of stairs, I was sweating. I slipped my arms out of my suit coat and loosened the blue silk tie that Cindy had given me on the eve of my job interview at the JFK Federal building three months ago.

I hadn’t gotten the job, but that ended up being for the better, as I’d gotten promoted at the bank I’d worked at since my first semester of college. No mere teller, I; head teller gave me the better pay to foot the bill for Cindy’s ring, as well as letting me set the best hours for myself. Working 7 to 5 four days a week gave me a regular three-day weekend that made everything in my life infinitely easier to juggle.

Not that I’d dream of talking about my social life and hobbies at work.

 _Ding_.

My head jerked up to look at the elevator, even though I knew Cindy wasn’t due for another ten or fifteen minutes, at least. I checked my phone – again – and saw I had a text from the lady of the hour. Three quick swipes and her message appeared:

_Hey dork. Just got on the green line at Lechmere, see you soon!_

I knew she wouldn’t get a reply, since the signal would get dropped underground, but I brought up the keyboard and sent a response anyways:

 _It’s about time, dork. You’ll see me as soon as you step off the elevator_.

As the message sent and I watched, amused, for a moment to see if the telltale ellipses appeared to indicate she was replying. Just as I gave up and assumed she’d lost signal, the world shifted.

The building lurched, tables sliding, people shouting in surprise, tableware tumbling to the floor with the the clatter of shattering glass from all over the restaurant. My eyes were captured by a vision of horror blooming beyond the windows.

“Earthquake?” a waitress asked, as she careened into the table next to me. I was pretty sure the question was rhetorical, but I answered her anyway.

“Earthquakes don’t cause mushroom clouds,” I answered, jerking my chin out the window to draw her attention to the view.

I heard her gasp over my shoulder as she noticed what I was seeing.

It was off to the north, somewhere on the other side of the river. It was only a few years ago before that Boston had gone on lockdown from the Marathon bombing, and we’d just passed the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. It didn’t take long for everyone in the restaurant to jump to the same conclusion.

I found myself on my feet, striding across to the side of the restaurant overlooking the subway station I knew Cindy had been headed for.

It took a minute to find the right vantage, since I was looking down at a rather sharp angle onto Huntington Ave. The Green Line here was still underground, so I had to look for the stairs and signage rather than merely following the line of the tracks.

It was easier to find than I hoped; a cloud of black smoke was clearly visible, billowing out of the stairwell. A few people, choking and covered in soot, were stumbling up the stairs.

I glanced at my phone and tried to judge how long the ride was from Lechmere.

She should still be on the train.

My stomach was oozing out of my abdomen, resolutely sinking to the floor and taking my hopes and dreams with it.

I couldn’t fathom that Cindy would be alive. Black smoke was indicative of a structure fire – the station itself was burning, and the tunnels were likely filling rapidly with smoke if they weren’t already.

...if it wasn’t the trains, themselves, on fire.

Another explosion rocked the building, this time off to the east, a massive pillar of flame appearing as if by magic from somewhere near the harbor. The shock wave was _visible_ and I watched, in horror, as building after building had their windows blown out. I turned to run to the opposite side of the restaurant, and decided mid-step that as the glass blew I would follow it out the side. This situation already wasn’t survivable; I couldn’t use the elevator, and whatever had just gone up in the harbor was a hell of a lot bigger than a backpack bomb.

There was a couple sitting near the window I had the clearest approach to, and I expected them to dive out of my way, or maybe put their hands out to stop me. Instead they didn’t react; they sat frozen, staring in shock at the rapidly approaching shockwave.

I reached the window and realized the glass probably should have blown out already.

The couple sitting beside me should have reacted.

They should be _breathing_ at least.

Which was about the time I realized the sounds of panic and chaos had fallen silent.

I put my hands to the glass and stopped to wonder if maybe I was just having a terrible dream.

“I am afraid this is all quite real,” a soft voice said, from just beyond my left shoulder.

I turned around slowly, taking in the impossible view. There was a glass frozen in mid-air from where it had been knocked from the hand of a man, also frozen in mid-air, who had been thrown backwards by the shockwave as it hit the restaurant.

The wall of broken glass and super heated air was less than three feet away from me. I shuddered and turned my face away from the gory scene contained within the shock wave. People were slashed with glass and being blown through the air towards me. Furniture was upturned; everything was airborne and _stuck there_ , like a freeze frame on a movie.

“I’m afraid we don’t have much time,” the voice said again, and I struggled to focus on her.

She was blonde, maybe mid-thirties, and wrapped in a flowing white robe sort of thing. She had a scarf or something draped around her head – cowl, I think was the word – and it framed a face holding the sort of sadness that could only exist in a moment like this one.

“What the fuck?”

“Time stops at the moment of decision,” she answered, as if the conversation was the most normal thing in the world. “I have come to give you a Choice, William Patrick McIntire.”

“How do you-“

“Your world is ending,” she said, and I could not find the words to deny the claim. “You are witness to the loss of this city, which will extend down this coast and affect millions of people. This is merely the first strike in a war that has been brewing for ages, the boiling point of prejudice and willful ignorance that will ultimately destroy the world you know. I am here, in this moment, to offer you an alternative.”

“An alternative to what?”

She gestured at the window, and indicated the drop down.

I swallowed. “And what about everybody else?” I jerked my head towards the still-frozen couple beside me.

She smiled, but there was no joy in it. “If you were given the option to save one person – just one out of dozens, or hundreds – would you forsake it because you could not save everyone?”

“Why me?” I countered. My hands were starting to shake.

“I can take you somewhere else, a land fighting to avoid the fate of your world. Not everyone will survive there… not even those I save are guaranteed to survive.” She frowned, the expression gone so quickly I questioned whether I had truly seen it at all. “You have a greater chance than most, with a language and skills that will serve you well. I will not willingly save someone from a quick death to condemn them to a slow one.”

“Are you saying you’re going to keep me from jumping out this window,” I enunciated slowly, trying to mask my shock and slowly rising anger, “just so I can get killed somewhere else?”

“I am offering you a chance of life where before you faced certain death,” she countered, and I felt like I’d touched a nerve.

“Who the fuck are you to play God?” I demanded, letting anger win out.

The smile returned, less sad but still far from an expression of joy. “Who, indeed. My name would only serve to confuse you further. Is it not enough to see I have frozen this moment? Is not our conversation answer enough?”

It was a damn good point. Somebody who could stop time probably had a solid fucking reason to play God.

And if she could stop time and move me to a different world…

“What about Cindy?” I asked, and tried to temper the wild hope that bloomed in my chest.

It lasted only a heartbeat, crashing in flames as quickly as the question was voiced, as her eyes seemed to flinch and she softly shook her head. “It has to be a Choice,” she said, her voice impossibly gentle. “You can make the Choice because you have looked out the window and seen the destruction, you know without my telling you what your options are. She was… underground. She never even knew she was in danger, as the sound of the train masked the sound of the explosion. They travelled directly into a wall of flame and-“

“And she died before she even knew it was happening,” I finished.

The woman nodded.

I didn’t want to understand, wanted to flail and insist it was all impossible. I wanted to rage and deny and condemn.

But the simple truth was, I was trapped in an impossible moment. And I could either trust the person who stopped time and offered me this impossibility, or I could throw myself out the window in an explosion of glass, and be incinerated on my way to the pavement.

“That one,” I said, tilting my head towards the pillar of flame on the Harbor. “Was it nuclear?”

The woman nodded. “It was. As are a score of others, in all population centers down the coast.”

I scrubbed my hands across my face. “How far west will the damage go?”

“Your parents will likely survive the immediate future,” she replied, answering the heart of my question. “The war that will eventually develop from this is a different matter, and who, if any, survives has not yet been decided.”

“Get while the getting’s good,” I muttered, and that sad sort of smile came back on her face.

I found myself studying her as I gave myself a moment to come to grips with the idea that evacuating my _world_ was best option, that never seeing anyone I loved ever again was better than dying in a blaze of white light as I plummeted out of the side of a fifty-something story building. She had fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the sort of crinkles that you get when you laugh a lot, the kind they always draw into pictures of Santa Claus. Her eyes were a piercing sort of blue, and there was something behind them – something massive that I shuddered away from. There were many, many things in those eyes that I had zero desire to see.

“What’s the catch?” I asked at last, knowing damn well that nothing’s ever free.

“There is a woman,” she answered immediately. “A woman from this world, trapped some miles to the south of where you stand now, who has agreed to bear the weight of salvation upon her shoulders. She has a purpose she struggles to fulfill, and I strive to bring others who will help her shoulder this burden. I have… not met with much success, and am taking you back many years, so that those who would be her enemy – and yours – will not know to look for you. I ask only that you find her, you protect her, you see to it she is accepted by the company she keeps.”

“None of that makes any fucking sense,” I told her.

Her eyes crinkled although she didn’t precisely smile. “It will eventually.”

“Do you want me to live up to my end of the bargain or not? Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“See to it she is accepted,” she countered. “Protect her, support her, and encourage others to do the same. Hers will not be the hand that holds up the world, but rather the voice that Heralds what is to come.”

It wasn’t much to ask, in exchange for my life. Too little, in a way. But the idea that she was trying to save _someone_ even if she couldn’t save us all, that I was a refugee in her eyes, made the relatively simple task easier to stomach as a logical trade. “Where am I going?” I asked, and the smile that bloomed on her face lived up to every promise made by the lines on her eyes.

“Thedas,” she answered, extending her hand.

“What?” I laughed, and out my palm against hers. “Now you’re just fucking with me.”

“I am glad to hear you know of it,” she answered, and there seemed to be a layer of - I don’t know, smugness? – in her voice. “I have worked to introduce your world to it, so that when the time came that would make refugees of so many, you would have some fore knowledge of your new lands.”

“You… you fucked with the game designers?” I aksed, astonished.

She smiled again. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What…” I swallowed. “What Age-“

“The ninth,” she answered immediately. “I have been… reticent, with the others; hesitating to divulge their destination, as I believed it would cause you to choose against offering your assistance. I have tried to mask their entrance into the world, attempted to cushion their introduction with a gentle fog of confusion. But perhaps I was in error. Perhaps the more information I give you, the simpler the transition will be. Perhaps by setting you on your feet, you will more quickly learn how not to fall. You are arriving some ten years before your charge, my Herald.”

“Wait, Herald?” I gasped, pieces falling into place. “You mean the Inquisitor? You’re sending me back ten years before-“

“I mean my Herald,” she countered, smiling again. “I hope she will eventually find her way into the title. I will leave you in Denerim, the day the rebuiding begins. You should be protected in the chaos.”

“I only… I don’t…”

“Your knowledge is sufficient to keep you safe,” she assured me. “Be forewarned, the language you know is called _Qunlat_ in Thedas.”

“The Qunari speak English?” This was getting more fucked up by the second. “You’re sending me to Denerim in a three-piece suit and all I speak is the language of the fucking Qun? No wonder you can’t keep people alive!”

The smile slipped. “Other transplants are more difficult,” she said with a sigh. “At least, with Qunlat, you can appear Viddathari. There is a reason, if not the true one, for someone with your appearance to have knowledge of that language. Other languages have been more… trying.”

“What do you-“

“Know this, William Patrick McIntire,” she interrupted, clasping my hand. “If you do not wish to come to Thedas, to find and protect my Herald, you may stay here instead. The choice is yours.”

“The choice is between a clusterfuck and a shitshow,” I sighed. “But I’m twenty two for fuck’s sake. I’ll choose life over death.”

Her eyes closed gently and whipped back and forth for a second, as if reading War and Peace in the span of a breath. When she looked at me again, her smile was beautiful to the point of breathtaking. I was holding the hand of the most exquisite creature in existence, and I was moved to the point of tears.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and the world around us went blue.

I felt her hand slip from mine as the ground shifted beneath my feet. For an instant I thought I could hear the chaos of my own world again, screams and broken glass and the sonic boom following on the heels of a nuclear shock wave.

“Wait!” I called, desperate. “Who am I looking for? What is her name?”

“Gwen,” the woman’s voice called, lost in a sea of blue that was indistinguishable from the shade of her eyes. “Her name is Gwen Murray.”


	3. A Brave New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has taken the strange woman's offer and traveled to another world. Now what he needs is a plan.

The blue cleared and became a dark alleyway between two fieldstone buildings. I stumbled a step forward and then felt the rough stone at my back. A glance over my shoulder showed the wall impossibly close; I had to have come from the stone itself. I shuddered and turned my attention to my  new reality.

It was all at once too gritty and too soft to be a dream. The sky was the perfect blue of high summer, swirled with high, thin clouds that accentuated the color rather than detracting from the sunlight. I was confident it was summer, as the weeds pushing up between the paving stones were green and determined, and the sun was shining down from almost directly overhead. If I had landed in a field or a park I’d think it was an idyllic scene.

As it was, the splatter of blood across the wall directly in front of me and the severed, monstrous arm at my feet sort of ruined the _happy summer day_ vibe. There were signs of carnage everywhere around me, with debris in the street from buildings half-demolished, pools of blood and pieces of combatants strewn across the pavestones, and lumps that could only be corpses in out-of-the-way places.

If this was Thedas, the goal at the moment would be on removing bodies and burning them to avoid them rising as undead.

The thought rose the hairs at the back of my head and I staggered as I spun around in a circle, checking the area around me for the body the arm belonged to.

The alley was, miraculously, empty. It dead-ended in a corner with a cluster of three doors and showed no signs of having ever been cleaned. I glanced at the sunny street and then down at myself before making the decision to go into the darkness rather than venturing into the city proper.

The back of the alley was filthy in a way that was sudden very appealing. It didn’t seem to be particularly fetid; it was just _dirty_. Soot from old fires, discarded bits of leather and metal on the ground, layers of dirt and dust and general muck… with the absence of notable bodily fluids, it was like a gift.

I checked the three doors – shut tight, barred, and showing no signs of _ever_ having opened – and then crouched in the corner between two. There was a broken barrel there, and in the wooden shards beside it an empty and suspiciously stained, ancient leather bag. The stitching was finely done but obviously not machined, and the leather was cracked and stiff but still viable. I shrugged out of my suit coat and vest, rolling each garment tightly into a ball. The pants were wool and so could probably pass so long as nobody looked too closely at them. I roughed up the hem along the bottom and rubbed a good amount of dirt across the stitching to camoflage the precise machining.

I pulled off my tie, setting it aside. I unbuttoned my shirt and tugged it off, and then pulled the white undershirt off over my head. I carefully tore off the collar, sleeves, and bottom hem, leaving ragged edges on the cotton cloth. I dropped it on the ground a couple of times and beat it against the stone walls for good measure before pulling it back on. I repeated the procedure with my dress shirt, ripping off the buttons and the collar before tearing out the seams and unraveling the edges a bit before beating it on the walls and ground and then tugging it back on. There wasn’t much I could do to disguise my shoes, but I also had _no_ intention of wandering this place without any protection on my feet, so I scruffed them up as best as I could and rubbed the soles on the edge of the stoop to scrape as much of the pattern off the bottoms as possible. I covered them in mud and soot, and resolved to get new footware at the first opportunity. My socks were probably obvious anachronisms as well, but the need to protect my feet outweighed my need to blend in perfectly. They were wool, which helped soothed my conscience over them.

I emptied my pockets, dropping my wallet, cell phone – no signal, duh, so I turned it off – house keys and pocket watch into the folded wool of my suit coat. The last thing to go was Cindy’s ring.

It was in the velvet box, which obviously needed to be hidden. But the ring itself… the diamond was a half carat princess cut, set in 24 carat gold and polished until it shined. It might buy me a new life, since it would never…

I cut the thought off and dropped the ring, still in the box, into my coat and vest. I was intentionally scruffing myself up; trying to sell a ring like that would get me marked instantly as a thief, especially if I was making the inquiry in _Qunlat_. I sighed and used the strips I’d torn from my shirts to secure the vest around the smaller items, and then to repeat the procedure with the suit coat. I was left with a roughly tied black-and-white bundle. The whole thing went into the beat-to-shit leather sack I’d found in the barrel remnants, which was in turn wrapped with my tie and then rolled in the dirt for good measure.

My hands were pretty well wrecked by this point, and I rubbed them through my hair to muss it a bit. My scalp immediately felt disgusting, but I resolved to get used to it.

The chances of finding another alley with no shit in it was roughly zero in this world. It might be months before my next bath.

I looked around my little end of the alley with a more critical eye, looking for a place to stash my earthly belongings. The blond woman had done me a solid, it seemed; the granite footer serving as a stoop on one of the doorways had pulled loose from its mortar. It was still firmly in place, but the stone _behind_ it, at the base of the building, came free with about five minutes of concerted effort and some chipping, courtesy of my friendly barrel remnants. The stone pulled free and I stuck my hand into the space it revealed.

There wasn’t much more space available than the stone had occupied, but the light was bad and I didn’t have many other options. I jammed the leather bag into the space and then pressed the stone back into the mortar.

It didn’t even go in half the distance it had been set before, but it was shaped perfectly for the hole and in the shadows at the back of the alley, on the backside of the doorstep, the chances of someone finding it were pretty damn low.

The chances of someone finding it if I wasn’t standing next to it like a fucking beacon were damn near _zero_.

With another scrub of my dirty hands across my face and hair, and then a double-handed neck rub, I stood and headed towards the sunlight.

The mouth of the alley opened onto a road that was arguably just a bigger alley. It was wider, and there were windows looking out over it, and showed signs of traffic (and carnage), but I was clearly in a shitty part of town. I stood at the corner of the building and blinked into the sunlight and tried to make a decision about _what next_.

There weren’t any people to be seen. I wasn’t sure if there were any people _alive_ in this part of Denerim. Ten years before the Inquisition formed, Denerim was the scene for the last battle of the Fifth Blight. From the looks of the bodies around, I hadn’t missed it by much.

The chances of me running into somebody who spoke Qunlat and wasn’t a douche was pretty low. I would be better off if I just pretended to be a mute. Surely they had PTSD in Thedas? There would be shell-shocked people all over after a Blight, maybe I could wander around with a slightly confused expression on my face and somebody would take pity on me.

I snorted a laugh. Wandering around looking confused was probably the most honest thing I could do.

I pushed away from the corner, still staggering a bit, and I realized I’d missed dinner. It seemed like lunchtime here, but food was going to become an issue, and fast. Stealing was a terrible idea, since I had no way of knowing what might have been poisoned by darkspawn and the blonde had made it pretty clear that her refugees didn’t seem to be surviving well.

There was a cheer, then – somewhere ahead of me and a bit to my right, and I made for the sound.

Three winding roads, a dead end, and a hard left turn were between me and the missing inhabitants of Denerim.

They had all gone to the parade.

I was still a bit behind everyone, maybe fifty feet from the back of the crowd, standing at the top of a hill overlooking a little city square. On the road on the far side of the square marched hundreds of soldiers with dozens of different armors and banners. The horses seemed rather uniform – same height, same build, same chestnut color – and it was clear this was the march of the victors.

I leaned against the wall of the nearest building and watched.

I was too far away to make out any faces, but it wasn’t like I would recognize anyone, anyways. The townsfolk were piled in three or four deep, and cheered for all they were worth as the soldiers – the survivors of the Blight – rode by.

There was another cheer, again to my right, and I could see something massive coming around the corner.

I stood up a little straighter and caught myself squinting, trying to figure out-

-that it was the remains of the arch demon.

The thing was _huge_. The body was the size of a tour bus, but with the head and neck and tail and legs and wings it was far, far bigger. It was being pulled by a full two dozen horses, massive draft horses that were straining against their harnesses. The body was laid on its back, four legs stiffly protruding into the air at odd angles, presumably so the wings could be held in place by the bulk of its body. It seemed to be on the axles of a number of different sizes and shapes of carts, whatever wheels the Fereldans could find to get under the beast.

There was a lot of space behind the dragon, as if none of the horses would follow directly behind. I wondered if they were pulling it into the wind, to keep the draft horses calm.

After a few minutes there was another cheer – louder, this time – and then two white horses came into view. They _pranced_ , proudly throwing their heads as they met the overjoyed crowd. They were clearly ornamental, meant for parades, and they were decked out in a greyish sort of blue.

A stark contrast to the horses were the riders they bore. In matching steely blue and high-polished steel were a man and a woman, stiff backed and with perfect posture. They stared at the monster ahead of them, not seeming to notice the exultant masses.

_Wardens_ , I thought. I could see little of them, aside from their breastplates shining in the noon sun. The man had broad shoulders and short-cut blond hair. The woman was slender but the way she wore that armor spoke of strength, with raven-black hair in a fat braid pulled over one shoulder and descending out of sight. The end of a staff protruded over one shoulder, as obvious as a shout.

I hadn’t played Origins. I’d only played the second game, the story of Hawke in Kirkwall, but I knew enough to be able to identify these two: Alistair Theirin and the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. I guessed her to be human and a mage – so likely an Amell, Hawke’s cousin. Hawke would be working in Kirkwall already, having fled the Blight, putting in his (or her!) time as a indentured mercenary or smuggler.

I had ten fucking years to kill before I could meet the Herald in Haven.

I dropped to the ground and buried my face in my hands. I couldn’t speak the language. Haven was on the opposite side of the country, weeks worth of travel across a land still teeming with _darkspawn_ for fuck’s sake. The only place I knew I could be useful was the last place anyone who knew what was coming would go: Kirkwall would be a _bloodbath_ in the coming years.

Ferelden was in a period of recovery – Alistair was in warden armor so he was probably _not_ the new king, so he would be out clearing the darkspawn from the country side and making it safe for travel. The Commander, beside him, would be off for Amaranthine. I could meet Anders there, but did I _want_ to?

What the fuck was I even _doing_ here?

For the first time – and decidedly not the last – I seriously questioned whether I had made the right decision. I could be dead – but it would have been instantaneous. I could already be dying here, maybe digging in that alley had exposed me to some horrifying pathogen, and I was just totally unaware of it.

There was no going back.

I needed a plan.

I could get a ride to Haven. There would be tourism there, most likely, or at least Genitivi would be headed out that way and would need laborers. To do that, I would need the language.

Qunlat would not get me anywhere in Ferelden.

Everything I could think of led back to learning the language.

There wouldn’t be a Thedosian equivalent of _English as a Second Language_ classes here. There was not community college in the second floor of some random building downtown. I wouldn’t have a way to pay for it, if they did.

No, what I needed was charity.

As much as it pained me to consider it, I was going to have to find somebody to shelter me until I could gain self-sufficiency in this world. I’d pay it back eventually – if I survived, of course – but in the meantime I was going to have to rely on the kindness of a stranger.

I sighed. Denerim residents were not known for the goodness of their hearts.

There were bells ringing somewhere, and with nothing pressing to divert me I followed the sound mindlessly. I tried to make a mental map of where I’d been, but in the end I had only a vague idea of which direction I had come from and which direction I was moving in. The sun was at its zenith, so my sense of direction was fairly fucked. My ability to recognize landmarks was limited, as well, since I couldn’t read the names on the signs or really tell the difference between streets and alleys. I was pretty sure I could eventually find my way back… but would I want to?

The bells stopped just as I found their source, and I looked up to see they had led me to what _had_ to be a Chantry. There was a huge wooden board in front, covered with hand-written bills that I imagined were dozens of requests for aid or notices of people missing in the chaos of the darkspawn invasion. There was a massive double door standing open at the top of a short flight of stairs, and people were passing in and out continuously. There were as many people in red robes and flat-topped black caps as there were battered and dusty civilians passing through those doors, and I cast a glance at my own clothes before deciding I blended better than I had hoped.

Thank god I hadn’t been wearing blue jeans and sneakers, I would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

I shuffled up the stairs and through the double doors, ducking my head as I entered to keep myself from staring as if I’d never seen a Chantry before (because I hadn’t). The temperature dropped once I was out of the sun, and I blinked at my shoes as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the plunge into relative darkness. There were oil lamps at intervals inside, and I got the impression of chandeliers casting light down from above, although I didn’t glance up to confirm.

I shuffled over to one corner and sat down out of the way and tried to come up with the next step. 

How do I ask for charity when I don’t speak the language? What happens if they have somebody here who speaks Qunlat? Would I want to speak to them, or not?

Would they let me stay if I spoke? Would they let me stay if I didn’t?

What was the safest risk?

I figured that I should start out mute, and if it didn’t work I could always try to talk after; the reverse was not true.

It was hours before anyone approached me. I sat in the corner, quietly, and listened to service that evening. I watched countless people enter, get water or supplies, and eventually leave. There seemed to be a collection bowl at the feet of the great statue at the front, but I didn’t lift my eyes far enough to inspect the procedure. People could be taking or leaving money, it was something to investigate. For the meantime, seeming to be shocked mute was my best plan, and I played the part as best I could. The downside was I spent a lot of time lost in my thoughts.

It was almost impossible not to think about everything I had just lost.

I couldn’t decide if I was glad I hadn’t had the chance to propose to Cindy. On one hand, she would have died knowing I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her; the last thing she saw might have seen could have been the ring on her finger. As it stood, I had left behind my parents, my friends, my coworkers, and my _girlfriend_ , and if nothing else it was easier to rationalize that away than my leaving my _fiancee_ behind for a fresh start in a new world.

The fact that she was dead was just as dubious in terms of helpfulness.

Thinking about it all – my parents never knowing I was safe, everyone assuming I was dead, never knowing how or when everyone else died, if anyone had survived in the city – I was more and more convinced that I would rather not talk at all. Being mute would mean I wouldn’t have to talk about what I’d lost.

Maybe not ever.

There was a lot of appeal in that.

It had been hours – the light was streaming in the windows on the wall the door was on, telling me which way was west, at least to my way of thinking – before anyone approached me. I saw black leather boot toes come into my field of view, peeking out from under one of the red linen robes the Chantry sisters were wearing. A kind female voice said something, and I looked warily at the source of the sound.

She was beautiful, in an medieval cloistered nun sort of way. I was suddenly aware of oral hygiene in a way I never had been before, when she smiled encouragingly at me and exposed a mouthful of yellow teeth. There was only one missing, and none seemed chipped, and so I supposed she was considered to have quite a nice smile. I was immediately determined to never, ever smile.

Not until I’d had a chance to jack up my grill a bit, at least.

Besides the yellow smile, she had slightly tilted blue eyes and thick blond hair tied back into a rather elaborate knot at the nape of her neck. She was lacking the flat black cap, and I assumed that meant she was lower ranking than the others.

Religions seemed pretty united in hat size as an indicator of rank.

I agreed with Denis Leary – God must be sitting up there with an enormous fucking sombrero on.

Whatever she was trying to tell me – it sounded like Russian, though I knew it wasn’t – wasn’t anything I could determine from context clues. I blinked at her and otherwise did not move. I didn’t want to shake my head and risk answering a yes or no question, so I just watched her with a blank expression on my face.

She tried four or five more questions – the words and inflections were different, at least – and I kept my expression carefully neutral. She asked me a shorter question, got the same response, and frowned. She made a _stay_ or _stop_ sort of hand motion, and then strode off.

I turned my gaze back to the floor. So far so good.

She was back within minutes with another woman, dressed identically but with markedly worse teeth.  This one had a head full of vivid red hair and _pointed ears_. My first elf! I kept my expression blank and tried to note the differences between the two women without making it obvious that I was studying her ears, which were actually serrated on the back edge. God, _knife ears_ made so much more sense now.

The new woman – the elf – knelt beside me and asked me a series of simple questions, looking critically at my eyes as she spoke, and I realized she was using different languages to figure out what I spoke. I immediately zoned her out, letting my eyes glaze over and willing myself to stay still. _Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react_.

She said something in broken English – Qunlat, here – and I didn’t even realize that was what it was meant to be until she’d moved on to something that sounded vageuly Arabic. The elf seemed to know four or five languages, although I was so focused on not reacting I didn’t really hear any of them.

She fell silent and stared at me for a moment, and I gazed wearily back, blinking a few times to clear my eyes. Suddenly her hands were on my face, cupping my cheeks and turning my face up. I let myself react this time, instinctively trying to draw away from the contact. She let me go, and I settled into numbness again.

Her eyes teared up a bit and she said something to the other woman before pushing up to her feet. The first woman – as elves probably couldn’t be in charge, not in Denerim and not in the Chantry – called a few words and then moved on. I let my gaze drift back to the floor. A few minutes later, a third woman – another blond, so it must be a Fereldan trait – thrust a mug of steaming liquid into my line of sight, causing me to reflexively glance up and meet another face marked by bright blue eyes and horrible teeth.

I took the mug and sniffed, breaking her gaze to peer through the steam. There were chunks of some kind of vegetable in a thin broth. I smelled salt and meat and maybe cilantro and other spices I didn’t know enough to identify. Or, well, _couldn’t_ identify, since this was my first day on the planet and god only knew what they ate here.

I lifted the mug in thanks and nodded, before setting it to my mouth to sip at the almost-too-hot soup.

It was earthy, that was for damn sure; like maybe they’d been using some old stick to stir it with and left it in the pot to dissolve. But it was food and it was free and I had no idea when or where the next meal was coming and I wasn’t about to turn my nose up at this one. After a moment of watching me eat, this woman – Sister, I supposed her title would be – left me and the mug to our own devices.

I was being watched by that third woman. The first was making careful rounds of the Chantry, interviewing people and seemingly making assignments. Some people stayed, some people left, and I had no way to tell who was going where and why. The blonde who had brought me the soup came back for the mug as soon as I finished and set it aside, which was how I knew I was being watched.

Alright, self. I mentally rubbed my hands together and set about coming up with a plan. I had food and temporary shelter. I had eight or nine years before I needed to be useful, so in the meantime I had to focus on surviving.

Step one, complete. Step two, maintain step one. Step three, self-sufficiency. Step four…

Step four was too much. Back it up a bit.

Step two. What did I need to do to keep from being tossed out of the Chantry?

I needed to not speak Qunlat. Which meant not speaking at all, as that had worked swimmingly so far. Not speaking at all meant I was either a mute – which would be proven wrong as soon as I so much as stubbed my toe – or I was in shock.

Given I’d just seen my favorite city nuked and was told my hoped-to-be fiancee was barbecue, shock would be easy to feign. Probably too easy. If everybody else assumed it was from the handy-dandy darkspawn invasion the Wardens had just cleaned up, all the better for me.

Alright. So. Shock, until I could learn the language.

How to learn the language? I couldn’t ask for lessons. I was going to have to hope the immersion experience would work for me, and that I did better with the common language of Thedas than I did with Spanish in high school.

So primary focus was learning the language. I would need a skill, too… some way to become self-sufficient so I could get out of the Chantry. I briefly considered just devoting myself to the Chantry – become a lay brother, try to get myself sent to Haven.

…but the chance of getting myself trapped at the Conclave right before everything went to hell immediately convinced me to avoid _that_ course of action. I needed some way to get sent to Haven post-shitshow. Who would be welcomed unquestionably into the fledgling Inquisition?

Just as that thought wafted through my mind, a pair of metal-shod feet clanged past me. A tip of a scabbard cut through the very top of my field of vision, and I unconsciously lifted my eyes to the person passing by.

_Templar_.

She was wearing heavy half-plate, largely hidden under a heavy tabard, the heraldry of the Templar Order unmistakable. Her shield was missing – but from the difference in armor between her two forearms it was apparent she was meant to have one. Her sword was utilitarian, simple, even; there were signs of wear around the hilt and scabbard that suggested it had seen rough use recently.

_Darkspawn invasion, remember_?

Her hair was a mahogany sort of brown, braided into a tight bun that I guessed would take an act of god to pull loose. Her temples were shot through with gray, and I immediately decided I would _not_ look at her teeth. I dragged my eyes back to the ground and schooled my features back into calm.

The templars were a few short years from going completely batshit crazy. Not that joining them was an option; I was about four years past when they took their vows, even if I was stupid enough to enlist in an order that was going to implode in the next decade (and I wasn’t). No, the templars weren’t an option, but they weren’t the only group of fighters in Thedas.

I dropped my chin to my chest to hide my smile. The answer was obvious now that I was _thinking_.

I lacked the build and musculature to be a successful smith, and I was too old to start an apprenticeship. But I’d dedicated my weekends to the Renaissance Faire and the Society for Creative Anachronism for long enough that it shouldn’t be _that_ hard to train with a sword.

The idea of actually putting a sharp weapon into another living creature wasn’t appealing in the slightest. I was a _bank teller_ for fuck’s sake. But in a world of darkspawn and demons, warring templars and mages, and more than a fair share of hostile wildlife, I would be stupid to not learn how to defend myself. I wasn’t dumb enough to think it would be the same as fighting with the comically blunted weapons we’d used at the last Grand Melee, and the terminology I knew would all be different here due to the language barrier, but I had a fundamental understanding of the theory, at least.

A survivor of the Blight, shocked silent, determined to learn how to use a blade and defend himself in the future…

As cover stories went, it was damn near perfect.


	4. Suffering is a Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will puts the finishing touches on his cover story, and gets the explanation he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want two posts today?  
> Yeah, whatever. Take two posts today. <3

The sunlight streaming in the windows was tinged orange when Big Sister, as I was calling the watchful woman in my head, approached me again. Another Sister had come around with waterskins, and dropped one in my lap when I hadn’t reacted to her voice; besides that, I had sat on the floor, my back against the cool stone of the exterior wall, lost in thought the entire afternoon. When Big Sister stepped into my field of view and pointedly cleared her throat, I waited a long moment before looking up at her.

She was smiling kindly, which surprised me given how she’d watched me like a hawk all damn day. She had another steaming mug in hand, and I had to assume it was dinner time. Rather than hand me the soup, however, she extended her other hand to me, palm up.

I stared at it dumbly. Was she asking for money? A quick high-five? Some sort of handshake done horizontally instead of vertically?

Eventually her hand drooped and she called someone over. Another Sister sat on the floor beside me, pressing her shoulder to mine. I included her in my dumbfounded expression.

Big Sister extended her hand to the Sister who’d sat beside me, and the second woman took the proferred hand and let Big Sister pull her up to her feet.

_Oh_.

They repeated the gesture with me, both of them putting their hands out, and this time I reached out and took the help. My ass was asleep, and the pins-and-needles feeling shot down both legs and made me bite my tongue to keep from cursing aloud. I flinched and swayed on my feet, but the two Chantry Sisters held fast to my hands and kept me upright. I stomped my feet while frowning, and the second Sister started to laugh. She said something to Big Sister, who also laughed. The newcomer made a gesture down her legs, wiggling her fingers and stomping her feet while frowning…

…trying to play charades with me.

I didn’t react. They’d likely seen the recognition in my eyes and knew I had figured out the gesture. Either they assumed I didn’t speak the language, or they assumed I was a deaf/mute. As long as they let me sleep here and kept that soup coming, I didn’t care what they thought.

The Sister who had been called over for backup – yet another blonde, _definitely_ a Ferelden trait – rubbed my shoulder sympathetically and then tugged on my hand. Big Sister had let my other hand drop, and turned to lead us away. I stumbled into step behind her, not having to fake my lack of coordination. My legs were asleep from butt crack to big toes.

There were half a dozen doorways between where we started and where we finished, and I didn’t lift my eyes from the floor to note landmarks; I had, however, counted steps. I was pretty confident I could backtrack if I needed to get back to the front doors on my own. The room I was led to was filled wall-to-wall with bunks, beds that were little more than pallets stacked three-high. There were precious few people in the room, but I figured that was soon to change. The sun was yet out, but I had gained as many hours as a trans-atlantic flight, leaving Boston at dinner time and arriving in Denerim at noon. The day had been impossibly long for me, and the idea of falling into a bed and sleeping for a week was impossibly appealing.

Big Sister gestured at the bottom bunk in one corner, and I resolutely plowed my face into the pillow. They both laughed, and her assistant took my shoulder and urged me to roll over, sit up, and take the mug of soup.

I took it with two hands, meeting her gaze for the first time without really meaning to.

Her eyes were so dark as to appear black in the uncertain lamplight of the bunkroom, but their shape and hue reminded me so much of my mother’s that I couldn’t hide my reaction.

_I would never see her again_.

Losing Cindy was bad. Losing my world was unfathomable. But losing my _parents_ wasn’t something I was prepared to deal with, at the age of twenty-two. Cindy could have said no, could have left me for some hockey player, who knows. But my mom would spend the rest of her life mourning her son. I should  have died in the Pru, in the attack, so I felt no guilt for her loss… but the idea that I was alive and well, and the comfort it could have brought her to know I had escaped and had a chance to live on elsewhere would save her unimaginable heartache.

And I hadn’t thought to ask the blonde woman who’d convinced me to come here to please let my folks know I was okay. I didn’t stop to text my mom a quick line telling her I loved her and not to worry, I’d made it out before the bomb hit and _please don’t worry_.

And, right then, the news was airing and she knew I was proposing at the top of the Pru, and she knew.

She knew.

I couldn’t tell you what my face looked like, but it seemed to have broken the assistant Sister’s heart.

Big Sister vanished, while the woman with my mother’s eyes sat on the side of my bed and said words I didn’t know but whose meaning was clear.

_I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay. Eat, sleep, rest. It’s going to be okay_.

I ate my soup, handed her the mug, and was rewarded with a soft hand to my filthy hair and then silence.

I pulled the thick woven blanket up to my shoulders – unspeakably thankful that it was clean, and the pallet seemed fresh and vermin-free – rolled to my side, and gave myself permission _just this once_ to cry.

I’d left my mother to think her child was dead, one of the worst things a person could live though. I’d lost the woman I loved, my family, my friends, my _world_.

And tonight, just this once, I could cry.

Never again, though.

Never again.

 

*

 

I was woken up by Big Sister the next morning. The bunk room had filled up overnight, and I could see where people had already risen by the mess they’d left of the perfect rows of carefully tucked blankets. I was taken by the hand and led out of the room, into a chilly antechamber containing a large basin of water, a folded bit of towel, and a neat stack of new clothes. Big Sister mimed for me to change clothes, and I clutched my arms around my chest and shook my head. She scowled at me, and I got the distinct impression that _no_ was not an answer she was going to take.

She pointed at the basin and I sighed and shuffled towards it. With a satisfied sort of statement, she shut the door behind her and left. I inspected the clothes when she was gone, happy to find a new pair of shoes included in the pile. I assumed they would clean mine and return them if I took them off, so I considered the problem as I made the most of the lukewarm water, wishing not for the last time for a bar of soap.

I felt remarkably better with the worst of the self-applied grime rinsed off. I put on the new clothes – largely shapeless but exactly the sort of camouflage I was needing – and rolled my shirts, socks, and shoes into my pants, tucking the roll under my arm. The new shoes didn’t fit worth shit, but they were too big rather than too small and the socks were more than thick enough to fill in the hollow spots.

Everything was simple, leather and linen. I felt safer, more invisible now. The only thing I had left to do was destroy the evidence that was my old clothes, especially my black dress shoes.

Big Sister was waiting outside the little bath room, and immediately reached for my old clothes. I tucked them under my arm and ducked away from her, taking a few running steps away and then _glaring_ at her over my shoulder. She put up both hands, palms-up, and did not move to follow until I relaxed. With her hands still up, she circled around me, and said something I assumed meant _I’m sorry, keep your mangy clothes_. She led me back into the main room and I, on a whim, walked right past the pew she brought me to and marched outside into the weak light of day.

The Chantry building was blocking the early morning light, but the shadow it cast just made my target more obvious.

The fires had started, as I knew they must. The darkspawn and human dead alike had to be burned, and the sheer number of casualties meant there would be a _lot_ of fires. There was one in the square a hundred yards in front of the broad front of the Chantry; a roaring blaze that bodies were being added to steadily from carts rolling up from the winding lanes.

Big Sister was hard on my heels, and I could hear her calling for me, presumably to stop, but I took off for the bonfire. I skidded to a stop before she could think I was going to throw myself in, turned slightly to my right, took another hopping sort of step, and then _launched_ my wad of clothing into the fire.

It set off a flash of green light when it hit, which took me aback, but my shoes were gone.

Hands were on me then, strong hands pulling me back, and I turned to look Alistair Theirin in the eye.

Once I thought about it, it made sense that the Wardens would be overseeing the burning of the darkspawn. They were responsible for removing every drop of darkspawn taint from the land, and Denerim was ripe with the potential for Blight sickness. It even made sense that he would stop some half-crazed waif from running into a bonfire full of darkspawn. But at first glance, the only thing I could think was _no fucking way_.

He said something to me, something short and angry, and I did the only thing I could think to: I straightened my shoulders, looked him in the eye, and let him take a long hard look at the man in front of him.

I was healthy. I was clean. I was well-fed and probably seemed _soft_ to the man who just helped kill an arch demon. I’d never gone hungry, never had to fight for my life, never held a sword for anything other than acting and wishful thinking.

Big Sister was saying something, then – her voice already immediately recognizable to me – and the Grey Warden’s face softened. He held my gaze for a moment longer – perhaps wondering what would make a man throw all his worldly possessions into a bonfire, maybe _knowing_ , somehow, exactly what that would take – and then called something over his shoulder.

A man walked up to me – an impossibly tall man, with grey skin and carefully braided white hair, a hand-and-a-half bastard sword sheathed across his back. There was something _alien_ about his facial structure and I realized with a start that _this was Sten_.

Qunari.

Soon to be the new Arishok.

One of the few people in Denerim who could actually understand me.

The choice reared up in front of me, and I felt time slow while my mind raced to make a decision. Did I speak to him in Qunlat? Ask the Wardens for help, risk being recruited, risk dying in the Joining? Or did I keep my cover, keep my damn mouth shut and go with my so-far-so-good plan?

I clenched my jaw, tipped up my chin, and looked the Qunari in the eye.

Alistair and Sten seemed to see my fear, and while they might have misread the cause, they both seemed to respect the resolve.

“As spoke the ashkaari, ‘then change yourself; you make your own world',” Sten said, and my heart skipped a beat or four. Sten said something – presumably the same thing – in Common – and then pushed a sword into my hands. It was beat to shit, but the balance seemed good and the scabbard was serviceable. I looked the Qunari in the eye again and nodded, repeating the action with Alistair. Both men put a hand briefly to my shoulder, and then I was being led away by Big Sister.

We were back in the Chantry, and I was pressed into a pew, but I had eyes only for the sword in my hands.

It was all too easy.

The alley having the perfect set-up to disguise myself.

The cheering leading me to the parade, giving me the date and relative world state.

The bells ringing leading me to the Chantry.

All of the things I needed, exactly when I needed them.

Then, today… the bonfire in front of the Chantry, the perfect place to dispose of my shoes, the last evidence that I wasn’t from this world. Being given a sword, presumably so I could defend myself moving forward, giving me the perfect excuse to start seeking out weapon training…

It was all too perfect.

If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Was I actually dead? Was everything that had happened since yesterday evening just a fucked up version of the afterlife? A confused instant turned into a lifetime? It shouldn’t be this _easy_ , not with the warning from the blond that the other refugees had been _dying_.

…unless she’d done it on purpose. Unless she’d set me up as well as she could. Unless she was sick of watching her hard work being wasted and set me up so it was _impossible_ to fail.

Which begged the question… who the fuck _was_ she?

An older woman started speaking then, a reedy voice that nonetheless carried across the room with the sort of echo that demands respect. My head jerked up.

There was another woman in the robes of the Chantry in the front of the congregational space, standing at the lectern. Her hair was solid grey, and her hat was notably larger than the flat black caps the Sisters wore.

Revered Mother, then. And apparently it was time for devotions.

I could try to learn the Chant. I could sit here every day and learn the religion of this world. If nothing else, it was a safe thing to know. I let my gaze wander, taking a moment to study the Chantry while listening to the Revered Mother’s prayer.

My eyes fell on the statue behind the lectern and my jaw fell open.

It was massive, easily thirty feet tall, and appeared to be solid gold. The gold was soot-stained and burnished, probably from the bonfire just outside the doors and the fires inside the Chantry of the people sheltering from the darkspawn invasion. There was the beginning of scaffolding going up to one side, and I knew she would be getting a bath soon.

It was her face that startled me. I’d only seen it once before, but it was such an uncanny resemblance I’d be a fool to discount it.

The blonde in the Pru, the one who had stopped time and convinced me to come here, the one who’d put the knowledge of Thedas into my world, the one who had apparently set me up for success in this new world, the person I owed my life to…

She was Andraste.

I couldn’t decide if everything suddenly made _more_ sense or less.

I couldn’t doubt the identity. She’s referred to the Inquisitor-to-come as _her Herald_ , which should have been a dead giveaway, if I hadn’t been three-quarters braindead from shock.

By the end of the sermon I’d come to weird sort of peace with the entire scenario.

Whyever I was here, whatever she thought I could do… she was probably right.

I just had to keep my ass alive for ten damn years, and then I would do what I could to help her Herald when she arrived. Gwen, she’d said the name was. Gwen Murray.

One step at a time.


	5. Finding a Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Names are almost important as the voice which speaks them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from my mother's 60th birthday roadtrip! We've got a room with a view of nowhere, wifi, and ambitious plans for the morning. Its a good time.

The bunkroom filled every night for the first week I was in Denerim, although Big Sister put me to bed first so I was always guaranteed a spot. I was getting more sleep than I’d ever gotten in my life, being the first down and one of the last up, but I felt like I was earning it.

I fell into a routine the second day, waking up, getting breakfast, and attending devotions. I was catching a few words now – mostly _Andraste_ and _Maker_ , and I was only positive about the first one – but I felt like listening to the Chant was a no-loss sort of scenario. If I was seen to be concentrating on the Revered Mother, really paying attention to her, it was less likely I would be flayed if I ever let slip a word or two of Qunlat.

After devotions I volunteered to help the cleaning crew that was putting up the scaffolding around the grand statue of Andraste. I watched for about ten minutes the first time, figuring out how it all went together, and then stepped it up a notch and handed the workers the pieces I thought they would need. I was right nine times out of ten, and the next day I was working right alongside them, lifting the pieces of scaffold and carrying water. I didn’t seem to be welcome to actually clean the statue, and that was fine by me. God only knew what she was made of, to have that uncanny of a resemblance.

I stayed with the cleaning crew until lunch – the same soup every day, but at least I knew it wouldn’t make me sick – and then went outside in search of a fight.

The templars and the city guard did their formal training in the early hours of the morning, and I knew I didn’t have any place in that. There were always some lounging around – near the Chanters’ board in particular, but all over the Chantry square in general – and it didn’t take me long to find a few of them who were always willing to help. I walked out with my gifted sword clutched in my hands, expecting ridicule and a long, aggravating series of inadequate charades as I tried to explain what I wanted without dropping the _shocked Blight survivor_ act. Instead, I walked into three people who had been in the square helping with the bonfire when Sten and Alistair had given me the sword, and they immediately helped me find a sword belt and then tossed me a practice blade.

Everyone seemed to settle on my being deaf as the explanation, and so everything was done with charades and demonstration. It helped that I had an idea about stances and holding a sword, but these were people who fought to _kill_ , and their lives depended on it. That they’d survived the Blight had to mean something, and there was a definite reduction in the number of fighters in the city; they were sympathetic to anyone who’d seen what they’d seen and decided to take up arms as a result.

I was not the only person looking for help in learning to defend myself. There was a similarity in the eyes of the others – a haunted sort of cast to their features that I wondered if I carried too. It would help explain why Alistair had asked Sten to give me a sword.

We trained from lunch until dusk; hours of grueling, sweaty, brutal work under a relentless sun. As the sun set I stumbled back into the Chantry, took a cup of soup from a smiling Sister, rinsed the worst of the sweat off, and dropped face-down into my bunk.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

By the end of the first week I could recognize the common greetings and when they were used – the difference between saying hello to the Revered Mother and greeting one of the fighters in the square. I was pretty sure I knew words like _sword_ and _shield_ and _up_ , but they were contextual and I couldn’t really be sure, not yet. There were a number of words that I was 50/50 on, like Big Sister could be telling me _soup_ or _mug_ or maybe even _food_ and I just couldn’t rule out the options.

I couldn’t just ask, either, because then they’d know I didn’t know the language. I was better off as a deaf/mute, even if it was trauma induced, than a foreigner.

By the end of the second week, the bunk room wasn’t filling up in the Chantry anymore. The bowls of soup were being filled higher, with more vegetables and less broth. I wasn’t sure if there were less sticks in it or if I was just getting used to the flavor. There were more people out and about in the square, and the visible pillars of smoke from other parts of the city were becoming more and more rare. The air was clearing, and it looked like a merchant was setting up in the far corner of the square.

Time started moving faster, and suddenly a month had gone by. The heat was fading out of the afternoon air, and sometimes the mornings were outright chilled. Each word I learned gave me the context to learn two more, although without any attempt to speak I didn’t have much faith in my language skills. I was able to get the gist of easily half the conversations I overheard, although the specifics completely eluded me. Words like _templar_ and _mage_ and _warden_ were unmistakable, but things like colors were highly suspect. I was pretty sure I knew the word _grey_ – as in Grey Warden – but it was also possible the word was _damned_ or _blessed_ or _sexy_. Adjectives were _hard_.

Arguably I should have been well-served by a dictionary, but I had made the uncomfortable discovery that the alphabet in Thedas was completely different than the one I knew; they wrote from top-to-bottom in columns rather than left-to-right in rows, although it seemed at least that their columns ran left to right. The bottom line was, I couldn’t read.

I’d never been much of a reader; I got bored too fast and put my book down and sought distractions instead. But the idea that I _couldn’t_ read was more than a little uncomfortable.

Everybody knew how to read. Illiteracy wasn’t a 21st century problem, not where I was from.

Of course, I was a 21st century boy and this was _not_ a 21 st century world.

I could get a very fundamental sort of language skill as things stood, but it was becoming increasingly more apparent that I was going to need to find someone to teach me the finer points of language. Eventually I was going to have to come clean about Common not being my first language. I was going to pull an Aragorn, though, and insist _this is not that day_.

Instead, my focus was on swordsmanship.

By the fourth day of my training, I was convinced I had made the best decision of my life. I was _awesome_ at this whole sword swinging thing.

Six days after that, I cursed the first time I ever laid eyes on Alistair fucking Theirin. I hurt all over. I went to bed in pain and I woke up in pain and the time in between was burning fucking agony. I was cut. I was bruised. I was exhausted. I felt like I was intentionally walking into an ass kicking every day and making _no goddamn progress_. I was making the same mistakes every day. I was just a second too slow _every damn day_.

By the end of that fourth week – assuming weeks were seven days and I hadn’t forgotten to put a hash mark on my bunk one night – I had come through the other side. I was as likely to win a spar as to lose, and I hadn’t come home feeling like death on toast in long enough that I couldn’t quite remember when it had changed.

That was the other thing – I was thinking of my little bunk in the corner of the Chantry as _home_. I had gradually picked up the names of the various Sisters I interacted with, and it was one of the few things I was sure about in terms of spoken communication. Big Sister was more rightfully called Charla. The quintilingual elf was named Nesiara. Meredith was the name of the sister with the dark eyes so like my mother’s. There were a handful of blonde-haired-blue-eyed Fereldan women that filled out the rest of the sisterhood, although I interacted with them less than I did Charla and Meredith, and Revered Mother apparently had no name, or at least not one anybody ever used.

I got most of my sword training from a man named Hank. He had a hint of an accent I didn’t know enough to be able to place, and he was my height if more muscular and a touch older. He had the sort of blond hair that was more accurately described as grey, although the term I was used to was _dishwater_. His eyes were so dark as to seem more black than brown, and I couldn’t tell if his skin was naturally swarthy or he’d just spent every waking minute outside in a world without sunscreen for his entire life.

The other person I got to know on the training field was a Fereldan – blond-hair-blue-eyes – by the name of Brue. Brue has an easy laugh and an even easier smile, and was as half again as broad in the shoulders as I was. He stood a good four inches taller than me; I’d always been tall, but here I found I was pretty normal. There was a couple of dwarves in the Marketplace, a handful of elves wandering around, and I’d met Sten the Qunari… with all these races intermingling, height and color meant next to nothing. But being about normal was yet another relief as I fought to _just fit in_.

One morning – the days had started to blur together, and I started to forget to leave hash marks on the bed frame – Charla met me on my way out the Chantry, putting a hand gently to my sleeve and tugging me away from the training ground. Conscious of the questioning tilt to my head, I let her lead me off. I hadn’t seen a Sister stray from the Chantry – not very far, at least – and yet she took me unerringly through the streets, into a part of town I hadn’t ever seen.

The neighborhood she took me to was clean – for a medieval city without plumbing, at least – and arguably well kept. The houses were still modest, and jammed together, but it seemed like they were _houses_ rather than tenements or apartments. There was washing hung out the windows and children darting in and out of doorways, the noise of normalcy slowly returning to a recovering city.

There was a house that stood out from the rest only by a sign out front – more a tabard or a flag, really, as it was embroidered cloth dangling from the eave beside the stoop. Charla gestured to it and I shrugged. She smiled and then waved for me to follow, and knocked on the door.

A woman answered the door. She was old – elderly, to me, which probably meant _ancient_ in Thedas – and she seemed to have laugh lines an inch deep. The adjective that immediately jumped to mind was _grandmotherly_ , and I felt myself matching her smile as soon as our eyes met. She was monochromatic greys, with silver hair and steely eyes and a grey dress over pale skin and simple metal jewelry. I couldn’t see much more than the smile in her eyes.

Charla was telling me something – I missed the vast majority of it, as none of the words she was using were ones I’d had a chance to learn yet – and I merely blinked at the old woman, who maintained the welcoming smile even when she was answering Charla’s words with some sort of affirmative declaration. Then, the old woman placed a gentle hand to my arm and led me into the home, setting me down at her kitchen table. The door shut behind us and I glanced back to see Charla had left.

There was a book on the table, and two steaming cups of tea. She pressed a cup into my hand, sat down beside me, and flipped open the book.

The very first page was a beautiful pen-and-ink drawing of a dog. It was oddly muscled, not matching the strays who were very well treated in the streets in Denerim. It seemed almost like a mastiff, or a bully breed, but it just flat-out didn’t match any breed I knew.

There were characters written down the left-hand page of the book, and I realized what I was looking at just as the woman ran her fingers down the word. “Mah-bah-ree,” she pronounced carefully.

Charla had brought me somewhere so I could learn to read. She wanted me to be able to communicate, one way or the other. The debt I owed to the women of the Chantry settled into my gut and I realized I might spend the entirety of the next decade trying to pay them back as I waited for the Herald to arrive.

Andraste would probably approve.

We worked through the book that day, and when Charla arrived to retrieve me, I was surprised to find the sun had sunk below the level of the rooftops. I’d missed a day of training, but I didn’t regret it.

I mean, I was sure to _the next day_ when I got my ass handed to me by Brue, but the day was not wasted. I paid closer attention to the route when Charla led us back to the Chantry, and was able to make my way back to the little grandmother’s house as soon as I finished breakfast the next day, with the intent of spending a few solid hours there and then making my way to the practice field outside the Chantry by midday.

The elderly woman greeted me at the door with a smile, and I hurried to the table and sat down. I hadn’t asked for this, but I wanted to make it damn clear I was appreciative of the offer. My teacher’s brilliant smile was all the confirmation I needed that the gratitude was understood.

She had all the words I’d learned the day before written on little wooden cards, thick cut for the hands of children, and she turned to various pages of the book and had me find the card that matched the picture she showed.

I got them all right.

With another brilliant smile, she retrieved a second primer – thicker, this time – and flipped it open to start on another batch of words.

They were all nouns, of course. Many of them were words I had learned – _mug_ was in there, as was _sword_ and _Chantry_ – but it was independent confirmation of the work I’d already done, and I didn’t begrudge the knowledge.

I paid more attention to the time, and when it seemed like noon, I took the book, flipped to the page with a sword, pointed to it, pointed to myself, and then pointed at the door.

The woman positively beamed at me, and then nodded. I hopped up from the table and practically danced to the door.

Her hand on my shoulder stopped me as my fingers closed around the door latch. I turned around to face her and found, for the first time, cunning in her eyes.

“Natalia,” she said, slowly, pointing at herself.

I nodded.

She pointed at my chest, and raised her eyebrows.

She wanted my name.

Wasn’t it the least I could do? I’d long since given up the hope of convincing anyone I was deaf – they might think me mute, and illiterate, but they knew I could _hear_. I didn’t know the standing theory on my lack of language, but I figured it was either _this kid is brain damaged_ or _this kid is a liar_. If I was lucky, the idea that I was shocked dumb had held on. But telling her – Natalia – my name was admitting I had the potential to speak. And it would force me to open my mouth and expose my teeth, which were still far straighter and whiter than anybody elses’ in Denerim.

She crossed her arms while I hesitated, and made it painfully obvious she was willing to wait.

I sighed. I wanted to learn the language, didn’t I? Maybe my luck would hold and she would keep the secret until I could speak enough to get by. I pointed to her and said, as slowly and brokenly as I knew the rest of their language would be in my voice, “Nat… tal… lia…”

She smiled, more broadly than ever, and pointed again at my chest.

“Will,” I replied, drawing out the single syllable.

With another grin that was a bright as the noontime sun, she nodded and gestured at the door. Using words I was sure, now, that I understood, she said, “Tomorrow, Will.”

I fled Natalia’s house with hope burning in my chest.

 

I got my ass beat on the practice field that afternoon. It was brutal, and heartless, and it pounded home the simple fact that a single slip in this world could end in my death. If I wanted to live by the sword, I had to _live_ by it, giving myself to it every day.

I altered my routine, largely abandoning lunch every day so I could make the run from Natalia’s house to the training field and not lose a moment in either place. Charla seemed to see it happening, and increased my portions at breakfast and dinner. Big Sister was, indeed, still watching me.

Three weeks after I started meeting with Natalia, I was understanding more than half the Chant the Revered Mother spoke at evening devotions. I had finally learned my damn colors, and I had a name for the first twenty numbers.

I also was paying enough attention to notice a dozen things wrong in Natalia’s home.

The back door was hanging slightly off the hinges; I hadn’t seen it at first because she always had it tightly closed and locked. The kitchen table was partially supported by three of the wooden cards to even it. She brought in water a quarter-pail at a time because her rheumatic hands couldn’t hold a full bucket. The fire in her hearth was always small, as she couldn’t lift larger pieces of firewood.

She was, quite plainly, alone.

It took three weeks before I had the words I needed to ask the question.

“Do you… have… help?” I asked, my voice still rusty from months of disuse and a few scant words a day with Natalia in the intervening weeks.

“Help, my dear?” she replied.

“Fire,” I said, gesturing at the hearth. “Bring water. Things need… need… need _fix_?”

Her eyes went a little bit glassy. “No. My sons were lost to Orlais, my grandsons to the Blight.”

“I help?”

“Oh, Will, you do not-“

“Can not pay,” I managed, nearly weak with the effort. The shitty language and the hit to my pride were both rather devastating to my ego.

She didn’t agree right away, but rather said she wanted to have a discussion with Charla, and turned my attention back to the book we were working through.

I led Charla to Natalia’s house the next morning, and did my best to not appear to be eavesdropping on their conversation – which I was totally doing.

“He seems to want to help,” Natalia told the sister. “He indicated several things around the house that are… not what they should be. And he seems upset that he cannot pay me for my time.”

“Are you sure? Those are… rather complicated concepts to mime,” Charla frowned.

“When you’ve been doing what I do for as long as I’ve been doing it,” Natalia chided the younger woman, “you figure out how to listen when people are trying to tell you something. You should Chant less and listen more, young lady.”

I clenched my teeth to avoid betraying myself with an audible chuckle. If I hadn’t loved the old woman before, Natalia’s keeping of my secret would have instantly endeared her to me.

“Oh?” Charla countered, nonplussed and smiling. “And does he _say_ anything I could be listening to?”

Natalia snorted. “If you think a man’s mouth is the part of him that tells the truth, you don’t know a thing about men. There isn’t a lie on his face, and his eyes will tell you his life story if you just know to look. Our boy here has seen horrors, Sister Charla. Horrors. And it’s up to us to bring his mind back to the Light.”

Charla ducked her head, briefly, and then nodded. “Revered Mother would like him to come to devotions, still.”

“Maybe you’ll see me there, as well. If he feels like he owes me payment, you can bet he feels the same towards the Chantry. Here…” she was standing in front of me, then, her knobby fingers brushing my cheeks and drawing my eyes to hers. “Do you want to move out of the Chantry, and stay here with me?”

The thought of moving out of the Chantry hadn’t really occurred to me. I cocked my head in confusion. Did she have an extra room for me? Could she afford to feed me? How much more would I owe her?

I shrugged, and she laughed. “Did you want to do chores around my house to repay me for teaching you to read?”

I nodded, eagerly, and she laughed again, happily.

“Charla and I think you should live here, continue training with the men, continue attending devotions, and maybe start working for the Guard so that you can tithe back to the Chantry, allowing them to help others.”

There were some words in there I had to figure out from context – like _tithe_ – but in all the idea had merit. It fit along with step three of my plan – self-sufficiency.

Maybe I could start thinking beyond step three, if I lived with Natalia.

I looked askance at Charla, who for her part seemed surprised at my level of understanding. I shrugged and nodded.

“So you… you understand us? All this time?”

I shrugged and nodded again. No harm, no foul, right?

“And my name? You know my name?”

I nodded.

“Do _you_ have a name?”

I looked at Natalia. She made an encouraging sort of motion. “Go on. You can do it.”

Charla’s blue eyes were huge at that moment, full of cautious hope. I considered my options, and couldn’t really think of a way this would bite me in the ass, not with Natalia stepping in as my teacher and benefactor.

“Will,” I answered her, again drawing out the syllable in an attempt to hide any sort of accent.

Sister Charla’s eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away quickly, looking to Natalia and laughing lightly.

“Oh, that was wonderful,” she laughed. “It’s enough to almost make me think I’m doing the right thing.”

‘You do the Maker’s work, child,” Natalia encouraged her. “You’ve done what you could for this one. Let me take it from here.”

“Are you sure?” Charla asked, and I felt temporarily forgotten. “It’s been so long since you-“

“I have it in me to take on one more,” Natalia replied. “Especially one who wants to fetch and carry for me. This is a nigh-ideal scenario, Charla. And I’ll make sure he keeps coming back to the Chantry for devotions.”

“Especially now that I know he understands them,” Charla said, with an air of acceptance.

“Do you have anything you need to bring over from the Chantry?” Natalia asked me.

I glanced down. I had my sword belted on – I always did – and I only had the one set of clothes. I shrugged and shook my head.

“Nothing?” Natalia prodded, looking truly sad for the first time since I met her. “Nothing at all?”

I gestured at Charla and shrugged. Charla was nodding sadly. “The only things he had with him when he came into the Chantry, he threw into the bonfire in the square the next morning.”

“We’ll have to find you a change of clothes, then,” Natalia said, eying me with a more critical gaze. “Those get laundered while he’s in the bath, I take it?”

Charla was nodding, and I stopped paying attention as they discussed my personal hygiene and shopping needs. The sun was nearing noon and I’d gotten absolutely no studying done. I may have let the frustration show on my face. “Come back after your training, Will,” Natalia called, nodding at the door to excuse me from their chat. “We’ll be able to read tonight for a bit to make up for the loss of the morning.”

I nodded, and fled.

I couldn’t say hardly anything in Common yet, both from an intention to appear mute and a deep-seated fear of having a Qunari accent and being ostracized as Viddathari. But between the careful way Natalia spoke and the months, now, of immersion, I understood the vast majority of what was said to me. Slang still drifted past, and much of the more proper phrasing of the Chant was hard to grasp, but simple conversations were becoming just that – simple.

Living with Natalia would likely give me the practice I needed to speak with confidence – and no accent.

There were a couple of new guys in the training ring that day – kids from the bannorn who had only just arrived in Denerim after hearing news of the Blight ending – and I was thrust into the role of teacher. Brue insisted I had learned enough that trying to teach others would help me more than just about anything else, and I had long since learned not to argue with Brue. Hank stood over my shoulder and narrated, so I wasn’t left on my own just yet – but even his narrative was helpful to me.

If I just relaxed into this world of sound, the language almost seemed to seep into me. Osmosis, really.

 _Learn, stupid_ , I thought to myself. _Hurry up and learn this so I can pay my debts and move on._


	6. The First Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will begins to earn his keep, and settles into an unexpected place in the world.

Natalia woke me up an hour before dawn, and the frail little taskmistress put my ass to work.

Water was hauled, the hearth was set to blazing, and the back door – now swinging properly again – was opened up to let in the bright morning sun. There was an abandoned chicken coop in the unkempt little yard behind the house, and getting the space in order and finding new birds were the first two entries on a never-ending _honey-do_ list. There were loose floorboards and sticking windows and damaged shutters, and that was only in the first week.

Natalia took up knitting by the fire at night as I worked – as with more wood for the hearth, the light was better and the oil for the lamps stretched farther – and the warm wooden needles seemed to help ease the ache in her hands. Soon I had a half-dozen pairs of socks, hand knit by the sweet old woman who pleasantly ran me ragged from dawn to dusk.

I loved her for it.

By the time I’d spent a month living with Natalia – the summer heat disappearing altogether and the temperature pitching quickly into autumn – I was arguably literate and questionably verbal. I could understand most anything said to me, and I made it a point to teach my alien mouth how to pronounce one new word a day. Most days it was far more, but some days that one was a struggle.

“Orlesian,” for example, was damn near impossible to say without an accent.

And I refused to say _anything_ with an accent.

If Natalia recognized the underlying Qunlat in my voice, she didn’t mention it.

Hank had seemed to know where I had moved to and why – Natalia was apparently some kind of local legend, although nobody had any stories they were willing to share. He went with me one day to ask her something – what, I didn’t know, as she immediately sent me outside to clean the chicken coop – the birds weren’t any kind of chicken I’d ever seen, but their shit was awful familiar. Hank ended up staying for dinner, which Natalia apparently had a girl from the neighborhood cook every night, and from that point on he called me by name. Everyone on the training field suddenly operated under the impression that I _could_ speak, I just _didn’t_. And nobody really seemed to care, either way.

A week later, Hank came down for dinner again, and Natalia placed her hands over ours, stopping our forks en route to our mouths before we were more than a few bites in.

“I have something I need you boys to do for me,” Natalia announced.

Hank immediately set his fork down. I slowly followed suit.

“Get Brue, and maybe track down Ophelia, she should be in the Alienage still, in the house that leans toward the tree. There’s a man staying at the Pearl who should be leaving tonight. Follow him, and make sure his ship doesn’t leave the port.”

“Yes, ser,” Hank replied immediately.

“How?” I asked, carefully. It was the first word Hank had heard me speak, and he looked sharply at me.

“Keep the ship intact,” Natalia clarified. “He’s… we think he’s shipping slaves. We don’t want any of the people in the hold hurt, if that’s what is happening. If he’s not a slaver, he’s still a (something) that the world won’t miss. We don’t care what happens to him, but the ship… don’t let that ship leave.”

I hadn’t heard the word Natalia used to describe the suspected slaver, but I had a colorful imagination. I didn’t think it was a curse, but the old woman had just ordered a _hit_ , so it wasn’t too far a stretch to imagine she’d sworn in the process.

Hank nodded again, but they were both watching me warily.

“Can you do this for me, Will?” Natalia asked softly.

She wasn’t actually asking me to kill someone, but she was asking me to be involved in something that was, potentially, a killing. She was also asking me to free people being sold into slavery, and she was literally _giving me a job_. I was training every day with a sword, in Thedas… there was no way I could get through life here as a man-at-arms without sticking that sword _in_ somebody.

And, I supposed, if I had to take on a hit… I was glad it was taking out a slaver in Natalia’s name.

I nodded.

“Such a good boy,” Natalia cooed, and we all went back to our dinner.

 

*

 

“You sure about this?” Hank asked me as we slid out of Natalia’s home after dinner. It was another first, on a night sure to be filled with them – he’d never asked me a question before and honestly expected an answer.

“Mostly,” I answered, which was another two firsts – the first time I’d answered Hank, and the first time I’d said _anything_ without Natalia’s direct urging.

“Care to clarify that?” he asked, and I could hear the smile in his voice more than I could see it on his face in the gathering darkness.

“No,” I grunted, and he laughed.

“Lemme guess,” he continued, impossible to shut up now that he’d started talking. “You’re sure about doing something for Natalia, but not at all sure about putting a blade into a stranger?”

I shrugged, confident he would get the gist of the motion in the twilight.

“You’ve never killed anybody before.” It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t consider answering it. “You’ve seen a lot of people die, though,” he continued. I remained silent. “You won’t kill anybody tonight if I can help it,” he finished softly. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try. We’ll ease you in slow.”

“You… do this often?” I ventured. I spoke slowly, putting the emphasis where it was supposed to go with care, keeping the accent silent.

“Natalia comes up with jobs from time to time. Nothing for a long time, but with you in the house that will probably change. She’s got a safety net if something goes south, something she hasn’t had since her grandsons died in Ostagar. I heard the last one, the one taking care of her, bit it when the Blight came to Denerim. Her taking on the Red might had dropped five years off her face. It’ll at least add life to what she’s got left.”

‘Taking on the Red’ sounded like something I would have known if I’d grown up in Denerim, so I let it slide by. I was supposed to be mute, not culturally ignorant. I’d ask Natalia about it later, if it didn’t explain itself over the course of the evening.

It was entirely possible she was trusting me more than I was trusting her. Since she was the only person in Denerim I trusted with much of anything, that was saying a lot.

Hank fell silent as we slid through some alleys and then dropped over a wall into what could only be the alienage. The architecture was the same – Denerim was Denerim – but the décor was utterly different. The great tree just visible in a square at the opposite end of the narrow street we’d landed in was another definite sign.

“Ophelia’s house is the one on the right, here,” Hank said with a jerk to his chin. “We’re not expected and they don’t like strangers, though, so-“

“You go first,” I helpfully finished, and Hank barked a muted laugh.

“I liked you quiet,” Hank replied as he eased onto the stoop, leaning his shoulder against the door to hold it closed as he tapped a distinctive pattern onto the doorjam. “I might like you more with a mouth.”

“Who’s there?” A woman’s voice called from behind the door.

“Friends,” Hank whispered, his mouth almost against the wood. “Jenny sent us.”

The words slid into place – having been confused by the language change – and I suddenly realized who Natalia was. Well, what her _title_ was. I was living with a Red Jenny.

My life was about to get a lot more interesting, it seemed.

Any leftover concern I might have had in this job evaporated. If there was anything I knew about the Jennies, it was that I wholeheartedly agreed with their causes. Cindy had ranted on and on about her Inquisitor becoming a Jenny at the end of the game…

…although the memory of Cindy and the impossibility of my life stopped me in my tracks.

 _Don’t think about it, Will_. I told myself, giving myself a little shake and endeavoring to pay more attention to the barely-breathed conversation Hank was having through the door. _Focus on the now. The past can only get you killed_.

“Alright, hold on,” I heard the woman say, and Hank launched away from the door, placing his hand to his sword. I stepped slightly behind him and intentionally did _not_ appear to be bracing for battle.

The elf – Ophelia, I presumed – was wrapped in a dark colored robe and a deep cowl, and the shadows made her seem taller than she was. She recognized Hank, and he stood down with a nod. She gave me a once-over, apparently approved of my posture, and tipped her chin towards the door. “Get out of sight.”

Hank gestured me through, and stepped in on my heels. Ophelia closed the door, temporarily plunging us into darkness, and then a ball of fire appeared in the palm of her hand.

 _Magic_.

I tried not to stare – I really did – but this was my first time seeing honest-to-god magic and it was impossible to tear my eyes away. It _sang_ to me in a way few things ever had, and for a moment – the briefest of moments – I wished I could summon fire as did this elf.

And then I remembered this was _Thedas_ and there were _demons_ and she wasn’t just an elf in an alienage, but an _apostate_ to boot.  There was nothing easy about her life, and I was an idiot to envy it.

I pulled my eyes up to hers, to find her studying my reaction curiously. The light flickered off her features, shadowing her eyes and giving her a malevolent air.

I grinned and winked, and she immediately grinned back.

“You’re different,” she said, surprised.

“New,” I agreed, mindful of the pronunciation.

“Living with Natalia, like I said,” Hank told her with the air of a reminder.

“Good. Easy to find if we need him again,” Ophelia said with a nod. “You get Brue?”

“Nah. Figure he lived between here and the Pearl, we can pick him up on the way.”

“He doesn’t know we’re coming?”

“Nah. Its Brue.”

“Right, always good for a fight, that one.”

She led the way down a series of winding stairwells, deeper and deeper underground, until we emerged into a – surprisingly dry – tunnel that seemed to have been carved through bedrock. I had so many questions… Did this have any connection to the Deep Roads? How was it dry, this deep, this close to the coast? Was this the only tunnel, or were there more? Did she happen to stumble upon this, or did she _make_ it? But while I might have had the vocabulary to make the questions understandable, I could see too many ways the asking could bite me in the ass, and I suffered my curiosity in silence.

Someday. Someday I would be able to talk without worrying about my voice, my words, my accent getting me killed. And, by God, I would never shut up again.

We came to the end of the tunnel, marked by another series of winding stairs, without ever seeing a fork or intersection. Granted, in a world of magic, it couldn’t be too hard to make an illusion to cover a hole in a rock wall, but I assumed this tunnel was a short cut with a singular purpose: getting into or out of the alienage without being seen.

The stairwell ended in a door, and Ophelia put a hand to the latch and leaned her body against the door, just as I’d seen Hank do in the alley back in the alienage, and she knocked a slightly different series of taps on the wooden door frame. I looked askance at Hank.

“Signatures,” he answered softly. “Stick around long enough, you’ll get your own.”

I nodded as Ophelia waited for several seconds and then tapped out the pattern again.

Another wait. Another series of taps.

With a shrug, she pushed open the door, motioning for us to stay put. I put my back to Hank’s, facing the stairwell, and he moved up to put one hand on the now-open door and monitor Ophelia’s progress into the building beyond.

“Only one of us gets risked at a time,” Hank informed me, his voice almost imperceptibly low. “House is likely empty, but could have squatters. Can’t risk anybody knowing this door is here. We wait here, hope she comes back. If she comes at a run, we go back, bar the door, and report in that this house needs to be made safe again. She gives the all-clear, we go in.”

‘Squatters’ was another word I had to guess based on context. I nodded, and settled in to wait.

Ophelia didn’t make us wait long. She came ghosting back shortly thereafter to give Hank the good news. “Empty,” she said, tipping her chin to indicate we could come out of the stairwell. “Only people who’ve been here are us.”

She turned her attention to me. They both seemed to be treating this like _my first job_ , as opposed to a one-time deal. “This is a safe house for Friends. It used to be part of Lady Emmald’s estate, but it’s been empty for years now. There are a few of them around town. The tunnel we just used – there are dozens of them. We find more all the time. We’re not sure who built them, originally, but given Denerim’s history it could be have been anyone. They’re not connected. Some clearly run right past each other, but they’re at different depths so they never intersect. Nobody could find one and use it to discover the entire network, but that also means we don’t try to guard them all. We have to secure them from time to time. Usually the people occupying the place just didn’t have anywhere else to go, and Friends help them on their way. Every so often it’s carta or a slaver and things get ugly. But that’s the sort of thing we’re on the payroll for.”

Hank must have seen my reaction to the word _payroll_ , once I had worked through the translation in my head. “Don’t doubt there’s money to be made in this, kid,” he laughed.

Ophelia grinned. “Money of the most satisfying sort… let’s go stick it to a slaver.”

We walked down a short corridor and then emerged out onto the street in a completely different part of town. It was full dark, now, and it took me several minutes before I placed where we were…

…which was right across the square from the Chantry.

Hank led us through three quick turns and then gestured for Ophelia and I to stay put at the base of a rickety staircase. We both nodded and slipped under the stairs while Hank casually walked up and knocked on a door on the third floor.

His conversation with Brue was one I suspected they had all the time – a proposal for drinking, maybe some carousing, and probably with a code word laced into it somewhere to make sure Brue knew exactly what he was being asked to do. They made no effort to hide it, but didn’t draw attention to themselves, either. None of Brue’s neighbors in the tightly packed series of buildings and apartments probably thought twice about the exchange.

Ophelia nudged me with her shoulder as we waited. “You the non-talker I heard about?”

I shrugged, and she chuckled. “Fair enough. Don’t have to worry about you making noise at a bad time. You got a name?”

I didn’t know quite what to make of her. She was an elf, an apostate, in the alienage. Why the hell would she be all giddy happy about running around with some strange, silent human dude? I tried to put the bemused befuddlement onto my expression as I considered the benefits of honesty. With another shrug, I said shortly, “Will.”

“Nice to meet you, Will,” Ophelia replied. There was another sentence behind that one, but it was cut off when Brue and Hank came back down the stairs. They walked out of the alley. Ophelia counted to twenty under her breath and then tugged me along behind them, tucking her arm through mine and giggling as if we’d just escaped being caught. I leaned towards her and matched her staggered step.

At the corner, we turned the opposite direction as Hank and Brue did. Ophelia straightened up and pulled away, winking at me, and we continued around four more corners before meeting Hank and Brue in another alley.

“Kid’s a natural,” she said, tipping her chin at me. “Played along and didn’t ask any questions.”

“Old lady knows how to pick ‘em,” Brue grunted, punching me in the shoulder. “Welcome to the party.”

“Thanks,” I said, nodding.

Brue’s eyebrows went up. “Shit, you do have a voice.”

Hank chuckled. “Weird, right?”

Ophelia was tapping on another door and had already gotten an answer as Hank and Brue turned their attention back to the matter at hand. The door swung open to reveal an adolescent girl – in the awkward stage when you’re all knees and elbows and greasy hair – with pointed ears just barely visible through a mass of messy blonde hair.

“Hey, Opie,” the girl greeted Ophelia. “Who’s with ya?”

“Hank, Brue, and the new kid,” Ophelia replied, and we received a tilted chin as invitation inside. We passed by in single file and were almost immediately in another stairwell. The girl shut and locked both doors behind us.

“That was the way it usually goes,” Hank told me as we made our way down, the darkness pierced by another ball of fire in Ophelia’s cupped palm. “The houses we use the most usually have a Friend in ‘em; tap your signature on the doorframe, they tap back, and if you both recognize each other you get to come in. Ophelia’s house has other people in it, and the Alienage is rough, so it’s not so simple. We’ve only worked together a time or two, and it was before the Blight, so she-“

“I needed to know you weren’t a Templar come to drag me back to the Circle,” Ophelia cut in, and suddenly she made sense. She hadn’t been raised in the Alienage – she’d been raised in the Circle, with more humans than elves, and a completely different panel of prejudices to deal with.

“Not happening,” Brue grunted.

“Never,” I concurred. I got a flash of a toothy – and whiter than average – smile from the apostate.

“If you weren’t living with Natalia I’d think you were a kissass,” Hank chuckled, and I rolled my eyes at him. He laughed a bit harder. “You’ve got a bit of spunk in there, don’t ya? We’ll pry you out of that shell yet.”

“You all know each other?” Ophelia guessed as we reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Kid showed up at the Chantry during the cleanup,” Brue told her. There was enough implication in his tone that Ophelia immediately seemed to catch on. “Hank and I had to figure out how to teach him to fight without words; for awhile there just wasn’t anybody home. Knew he wasn’t deaf, ‘cause he was twitchy like mad, but otherwise didn’t…” he seemed to remember I was _right there_. “Sorry, kid, but it’s true. We’d talk right to you, and your eyes were just _empty_.”

I shrugged. They were all silent for so long I reached out and clapped Brue on the shoulder encouragingly. “Go on,” I said.

Brue shook his head but finished his explanation. “Sister Charla hauled him off to Natalia, what, a month ago? She knocked the words out of him, apparently. He’s been hauling wood and patching shutters there ever since. Got the house looking pretty nice again, actually.”

Ophelia nodded. “Good. Old bird needed the help.”

“Got backup again, in case this goes bad,” Hank added. The other two nodded sagely.

“Bad?” I repeated.

“If this guy gets away from us, we don’t have to worry about him getting back to Natalia. She’s not alone in that house anymore. With you there, she at least stands a chance if somebody figures out her other name is Jenny.”

“She’s been in retirement since three of her grandsons shipped off to Ostagar with Cailan,” Brue added.

They all saw me flinch, and that conversation ended.

We passed through the rest of the tunnel in silence. The stairwell at the other end was the shortest yet – maybe ten steps – and then we emerged directly into an alley.

It was familiar. Far too familiar. We were at the end of a dead-end, with three doors on three walls all facing in. The door we filed out of was in the middle of the other two. I stepped off the stoop, and by chance I put my foot down onto the ruined remains of a barrel. It drew my attention down – to the side of another stoop, where one stone jutted slightly out of alignment, and I realized where I was.

This was where I’d arrived in Thedas, months before.

Andraste had set me down next to The Pearl.

 _Be cool, damn it, just be cool_.

Brue leaned against the wall beside me and waited while Hank, this time, leaned against another door and tapped. “You’re getting twitchy again,” the big Fereldan laughed. “First time at a brothel, kid?”

I snorted. “No,” I answered honestly.

Brue laughed harder.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Ophelia told him, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at the exasperation on her face. If she and Hank hadn’t worked together much – or recently – she definitely had history with Brue.

The door swung open almost immediately, and for the first time that night we were welcomed by a wide swath of bright light and a blast of warmed air and _noise_. “Hank!” A woman wearing a well-made corset and showing off the kind of cleavage I got used to seeing at the Renn Faire wrapped a hand around Hank’s forearm and drew him inside. “Oh, you beast, you’ve been away for _so long_. How come you make me wait, huh? Why do you keep stringing me along? Oh, I’m _so glad_ you’re here!”

She kept at this for awhile, and first Brue and then Ophelia slipped through the door she’d _conveniently_ left open. I stepped through at Ophelia’s beckon and pushed the door silently shut behind me. Despite the appearance on the outside, the hinges were well oiled and the latch was in good repair. There were metal bands on the inside of the door, although the close quarters of the hallway we were in made it difficult to tell at a glance precisely how sturdy the thing actually was.

“Hank!” four different women squealed from the direction our Friend had been dragged. Brue tipped his head towards a different hallway, and I followed in his wake. I noticed there were no creaks in the floorboards, nothing extending into the hallway to catch on clothing or trip someone up. The wall hangings were all thick tapestries that were well-secured.

It was almost like they built it with stealth in mind.

There were a series of doors at the end of the short hall, all in a cluster, and Brue walked to the second on the left and popped it open without hesitation. There was a table and several chairs in the room, a heavily shuttered window, and a sort of dish or basin sitting on the floor.

Brue gestured Ophelia and I inside, and he shut the door behind us.

Ophelia sunk to the floor beside the basin. I grabbed a chair and swung it around so I sat in it backwards, looking over the backrest at whatever it was Ophelia was doing. Brue smirked at me and then slid another chair – the feet were felted, I saw, and the floor polished, so the movement made no sound – so he would be just behind the door if it opened suddenly but not hindered by it. There was an arc on the floor, drawn so subtly I didn’t notice it until I was trying to judge exactly where the edge of the door would be when it opened. Again, there was a purpose in the construction here. None of this was merely convenient.

I turned back to Ophelia and saw the basin on the floor was full of water. I could have sworn it was empty a moment before, but before I had much of a chance to wonder, I saw her hold her hand out over the surface of the water, palm down, fingers splayed. She tilted her hand for a moment until it was perfectly parallel, and then – for just an instant – her fingers glowed white.

The surface of the water lit up like a television screen, and suddenly we were looking into the common room of The Pearl.

The perspective was hard to determine for a moment, until I realized Ophelia was shifting it around. I caught glimpses of things, like Hank with his arms around two women while a third carefully lifted a tankard to his lips, and a woman in the corner with her feet on the table that looked painfully familiar but I couldn’t place at first. The view focused on a man at the bar, looking rather grim and drinking with the sort of focus that comes from being stuck in the middle of something you loathe.

I didn’t know if it was the job or the brothel, but that was the face of a man who did not currently appreciate his lot in life.

“Yep,” Ophelia gritted. “That’s our boy. Back for another run. Must have heard Nattie was retired and thought it was safe to start doing business in Denerim again.”

“He see Hank?” Brue asked, not looking over.

“Of course he sees Hank,” Ophelia snorted. “With the welcome he got? You’d have to be blind not to.”

Brue chuckled. “Good.”

Ophelia crossed her arms, hunched over the basin like she was cold, and settled in to watch. “When he moves, we move,” she told me. “Hank stays put. Hank is a known entity – our boy here will leave somebody behind to make sure Hank doesn’t follow him, and try to cover his exit. We follow Aevarin, here, and figure out which ship is his. That ship does not sail, no matter what. And if we get the chance, we put a knife in Aevarin.”

“Slaver?” I risked asking. I needed to know.

Ophelia seemed to understand. “Yes. He’s a known slaver. I personally caught him in the act in the alienage, two years ago.”

I nodded. Whatever moral compunction I might have had about being involved in this guy’s death went right out the window. I still wasn’t sure I could actually kill a man…

…but this was the life I had chosen.  If I had to have a first kill, this was a pretty solid option.

I could always go back to the Chantry.

She was watching me, stealing glances as she kept her primary focus on the basin of water. “You wear it all on your face, you know.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her.

“You’re uncomfortable, but you’re confident. You’ve never killed anybody before, but you figure this guy needs a knife in him, and if you’re okay with that conclusion then you have to also be willing to do the killing. All on your face.”

What could I say to that? I coughed a laugh and shook my head.

“You’re not from around here. You can’t be. No way you could grow up in Denerim and wear your brain on your face like that.”

It was sobering. I had tried to fit in as best as I could – but I couldn’t mask the fact I had grown up _safe_. I could consciously hide my teeth, but I couldn’t hide my upbringing, couldn’t mask the fact that I’d never in my life had to hide to be safe. If ever I pretended to be someone I wasn’t, it was a game, an act, something I did for fun. I was born a straight white male in America; I could afford college, I had a job at a bank, I played with swords and armor on the weekends for fun. I had never in my life had to hide anything.

And now that wasn’t concentrated on being shocked mute, it was apparently painted across my face.

“No,” I admitted. “I’m not.”

Ophelia was nodding. Brue seemed amused but disinterested, like he didn’t mind listening in but he didn’t really give a shit where I came from.

“I don’t want to know where you’re from,” she said, reassuringly, a moment later. “That’s not how the Friends work. You’re here, now, and you’ve got Nattie to vouch for you. But you need somebody to tell you… something happens to Natalia, and you’ve got any hand in it? There is no place in the world for you to hide.”

“No,” I agreed softly. “There’s not.” There was no way she knew how right she was.

Ophelia nodded again. “Good. He’s moving.”

“What?” Brue said, sitting up. “Already?”

Ophelia stood over the bowl and brought the focus of the image in the water out into a wider angle. The slaver – Aevarin – was walking out the front door with the woman from the corner of the bar.

“That’s his Captain,” Brue said, pointing at the Rivaini.

“Isabela,” Ophelia sighed, shaking her head. “This is not going to be fun.”

It took a second for everything to settle, and I had to fight to manage my shock. Isabela! Hawke’s Isabela! No wonder she’d seemed familiar. But if she was transporting slaves…

“She…” I started, and then stopped. I couldn’t say it, not without an accent. Luckily I didn’t have to.

“She doesn’t know,” Brue said at the same time. “No way she knows it’s slaves.”

Ophelia shrugged. “Carrying slaves is carrying slaves. Let’s go.” She closed her open palm suddenly, making a fist. The image disappeared. She twisted her wrist and made a flicking motion, and the water in the basin vanished. I was still blinking at the seemingly effortless use of magic – she was Circle trained, after all – when Brue tugged open the door. “At least we know which ship they’re using. We don’t have to follow.”

“That’s why he went out the front door,” Ophelia agreed with a sigh. “We’ve got to beat them there. Let’s go.”

We were in the hallway, then, and Brue popped open another door revealing a long, dark hallway. As soon as the door closed behind us – making the now-ambient raucous of the common room vanish – we were running. Ophelia was as nimble and light on her feet as stereotypes made her out to be, and Brue was a better runner than I thought he would be. He was breathing like a bellows by the time we emerged onto the street, but he never slowed.

It wasn’t far from the Pearl to the docks, and I prided myself on keeping up. I wasn’t as fast as Ophelia but I was faster than Brue, which was good enough for me.

“Shoulda kept Hank,” Brue told us, gasping as we slowed to a stop in an alley and Ophelia glanced around the corner into the street beyond. “He’s faster.”

“You just wish you were the one draped in hookers,” Ophelia replied absently. “Sailors are lazing about, so their Captain’s not on board. Keep an eye for-“

“Me, sweet thing?” a drawl I couldn’t mistake asked from somewhere behind Brue. He spun around just as Isabela dropped from a lopsided balcony. She wore her daggers almost as afterthoughts, dangling from her hips like they were merely accessories she’d taken a fancy to. I knew better. I had only sparred with warriors in the past; I had no idea how to counter daggers. Here was hoping she didn’t know Ophelia was a-

“Fancy meeting you here, little mageling,” the Rivaini continued and I flinched. “I know big, blonde, and noisy there, but the twitchy one is new. You’re not making trouble for me, are you?”

Ophelia sighed. “It’s nothing personal, Isabela, but we’re not letting you sail.”

That was the wrong thing to say to Isabela. She didn’t let on – her stance didn’t change, her face didn’t change, she didn’t so much as blink, but _I knew_ this was suddenly doomed.

“The cargo,” I said, quickly, accent be damned. “Slaves.”

“Will,” Brue barked, but I had her attention. I knew the cargo wasn’t confirmed, and I might have just lied to her. Hell, I might have fucked up the whole works. But if Aevarin was a known slaver and the ship leaving tonight was full of slaves… This might very well be the story she tells Hawke one day in regret.

She blinked at me, and Brue was _pissed_ but Ophelia followed my lead. “Aevarin’s a known slaver, Isabela. We don’t want to harm you or your ship but we can’t let him get away again. Did he tell you what you were transporting? Or did he give you a promise of a fat purse, with a down payment of gold to keep your silence?”

Isabela was silent for a moment longer, and it was all the confirmation Ophelia needed. “Let us take him, and we’ll get your payment instead.”

“You can’t afford me,” Isabela chuckled, and Ophelia shook her head.

“No. But we can ease the sting of losing this job. And you can blame it all him getting himself killed in a Denerim back alley. Not your fault.”

Isabela hesitated a moment more, but it was long enough. There was a shout from the other side of the street, and the two women charged off to investigate. Brue, his hand on my shoulder, followed at a slower pace.

“If they’re not slaves in there…” the big man threatened softly.

I nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t think you do, kid.”

“Well, shit,” Isabela quipped, drawing my attention up.

Hank was standing over a corpse that had previously been Aevarin. Ophelia crossed over, cut a heavy purse loose from just behind the slaver’s belt, and chucked it to Isabela. The pirate nodded to herself and then, shamelessly, knelt to rifle through the corpse’s possessions. She handed a letter over her shoulder to Ophelia, who read it and sighed.

“Your hold is full of people, Isabela.”

The Rivaini, hands full of various items she’d looted from Aevarin, shook her head. “Figured. I’m blaming this on you.”

Ophelia nodded. “I can take it.”

Isabela laughed, throwing her hair over her shoulder before striding off toward her ship. “I hadn’t heard that about you.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes and nodded to Hank, who disappeared down the street.

“Now what?” I asked Ophelia.

“Isabela either opens up her cargo hold or I light her sails on fire.”

The surprise must have been plain on my face, because Ophelia started laughing. “The ship won’t sink, but it won’t move either, and it’ll cost her a fortune. Easy enough to blame it on a careless torch when the world expects magic to be fireballs and _Sarebaas_. All it takes is a spark, and I can cast that from here, no problem. And Isabela knows I can. We’ve had… run-ins, in the past.”

“It was a good call, kid,” Brue admitted as we watched Isabela issuing orders. I was pleased to note there was no sign of any of the ropes being untied from the dock. “It was a risk, though. Not one I would have made.”

I nodded, once, as Brue clapped my shoulder. Ophelia smiled back at me. “So where do you know Isabela from? She doesn’t seem to remember you.”

I almost laughed. There was no explaining that one. “I… was a friend of a friend. Once.”

Brue frowned, and I knew he caught the hint of accent I was rapidly losing the battle to control. Ophelia made it too hard to talk, made me _want_ to talk. I felt like nothing I told her would be wrong, like she could even know I was fluent in Qunlat and she would just take it as an interesting quirk and nothing more.

She smiled at me again and I mirrored the expression. “I don’t think I want to know that story, either.”

I winked. “No. No, you don’t.”


	7. Running with Jenny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The further adventures of Will, Hank, Brue, and Ophelia.
> 
> Also, shit, sub-plot? This is why my stories get so long.

The three of us left as the people – elves – started emerging from Isabela’s cargo hold. Hank had returned with a few people to help, which quickly became dozens, as word spread of a Captain who’d discovered her cargo was slaves and immediately set them free.

Ophelia vanished into an alleyway to make her way back to the alienage, and I followed Brue through the streets to get back to Natalia’s house several miles away. We were silent during the walk, which gave me a chance to plummet into self-doubt.

What if I’d just completely fucked up Isabela’s story? Hawke was in Kirkwall right now, working to pay off the bribe that brought his family into the city. Was this the cargo of slaves Isabela let sink and then felt she had to redeem herself for? Did I just completely fuck up the future by stopping her from sailing off with all those people on board?

I thought for a moment that Ophelia and Brue could have stopped her without me, but then again, Natalia wouldn’t even have gotten involved if she didn’t have me to live with her and buy her some security. My being there allowed her to get back into the game as a Red Jenny, and without me nobody would have been on the docks to argue with Isabela tonight.

On the other hand, if Andraste hadn’t brought me here, it wouldn’t have been necessary for me to go to Natalia’s to learn to read. If I kept tracing it back all the way, my being in Thedas wasn’t part of the story to begin with.

My head swam. I couldn’t shrug off responsibility, not entirely. I needed to be _careful_. I definitely needed to stay the hell out of Kirkwall. And I needed to make sure shit like tonight didn’t happen again. Another year or two and all of Hawke’s companions would be safely in Kirkwall and I wouldn’t be able to fuck with anything.

God, what might have happened if I’d tried talking to Sten? Could I have ruined his ascension to the Arishok without meaning to?

I’d always wondered if the butterfly effect was real, and here I was, a chipper little insect flapping his damn wings. I suppose I’d already wreaked havoc; now I could sit back and hope everything didn’t dissolve into chaos.

We reached Natalia’s house as I started to remind myself, over and over again, that I was brought back specifically to help one particular person. I had a purpose ten years in the future, and at that point in time I was _supposed_ to alter the chain of events to keep the Herald alive. I had to get to the Conclave right _after_ it exploded, and until then I had to stay alive. But my existence _was_ going to change things.

So I had to let it go.

“How did you do tonight, Will?” Natalia asked as soon as she opened the door to the two of us on her front stoop.

“He’s got good instincts,” Brue answered for me. “He’s a good find.”

With nods all around, Brue left and Natalia locked the door behind him.

“Now,” she said, gesturing at the chairs in the living room. “Tell me everything. I know you can. And I don’t care how bad your pronunciation is.”

I sighed and shook my head for a moment, sitting down where she instructed me to. But, with a shrug, I did as she asked. It was hard, and it was embarrassing, and it was uncomfortable, but I narrated the events of the evening as best I could.

Natalia, for her part, kept silent.

When I finished, she pushed out of the chair. “If I sent you on another task tomorrow, would you go?”

I did not hesitate. “Yes.”

She ruffled my hair and went off to bed, leaving me to bank the fire.

 

*

 

Natalia did have a task for me the next morning, but it was fairly simple: carry three pouches to the people I had been involved with the night before. They had the heft of coin purses, but they were strangely silent. I shrugged and went on my way.

I went to the alienage first thing, walking right through the gates as if it were a normal thing. Solona Amell had made a public declaration in support of the Denerim elves and little else had been talked about in the streets since Queen Anora had thrown her weight behind it. There were rumors that the alienage was going to be given sovereignty and one of their own – an outright rebel by the name of Shianni – named the first Bann.

“Because that’ll fix it,” I heard a merchant sniff. “Make ‘em nobility? Then you’ll just have one elf lorded above the rest. Won’t be no different than Orlais.”

“Shouldn’t it be the Elder?” somebody else was asking, in tones of thinly masked outrage. “If you’re going to give control of the alienage to an elf, why give it to some rabble-rouser?”

I did my best to ignore them all and move on. There were definite whispers as I entered the alienage, but nobody knew me so there was no where for the rumors to go. Not that I cared.

I found the house that Natalia had described – the one that leaned towards the great tree in the middle of the alienage – and knocked on the door. After a moment, the latch lifted and a small child’s face appeared in a narrow gap between the door and the frame, a chain visible at my eye level.

“Ophelia,” I told the child, hoping to keep my words to a minimum.

“Why?” the child replied, blinking up at me.

I considered my options. I had a sword on my hip, which meant I was less likely to be messed with but also less likely to be trusted. This kid couldn’t open the door alone – the chain was way out reach. I needed to convince him to run and fetch Ophelia without getting trapped in a conversation. I dug out the pouch I had been sent to deliver and bounced it in my hand.

“Delivery,” I answered, ever mindful of minimizing my accent.

A hand shot out through the gap, fingers outstretched, palm up.

I laughed and shook my head. “Ophelia,” I said again.

The door snapped shut. I turned and sat on the stoop to wait, and did my best to seem nonthreatening.

A willingness to turn my back to Ophelia would make me either an ally or an idiot, regardless of whether or not I knew what she was. Keeping my back to the door seemed like the best thing I could do to minimize my disturbance to the alienage.

God knows they’d had enough of those in the last year.

It was a long time – maybe an hour – before the door opened behind me, and I felt like I’d been forgotten by most of the residents of the alienage by the time Ophelia stood beside me on the stoop. I hadn’t been cast a sideways glance in probably ten minutes. I wasn’t in any rush, as I was going to stay and train with Hank and Brue once I found them; the downtime spent watching the tree ripple in the breeze was a welcome way to waste the morning.

“You just won me a silver,” Ophelia announced as she slid silently out of the door to sit beside me. “Gil was sure you would leave, and Kyler swore you’d pound on the door. I said you’d sit for half a candlemark without complaint. They laughed at me for insisting a _shem_ was patient, but a man who chooses not to speak has to be.”

I pulled the pouch off my belt and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said as she took it.

I nodded.

“Back to silence, are we?”

I glanced over to see a teasing sort of smile on her face. She was prettier in sunlight; the firelight and shadows that had played across her features the night before had given her a menacing sort of look. Today, she was a woman in her prime, with the glowing eyes and tipped ears of her race. She had a straight vertical scar underneath her dark green eye on the right side, about as long and thick as my pinky finger. Her hair was a golden sort of blonde, and hung in an impossibly thick braid over one shoulder, coming to rest on her lap. She was slender in the way most elves were – especially the ones used to near-starvation in an alienage – but she was more muscled than most, more solid. That probably came from her nights spent as some kind of damn freedom fighter.

I could have just nodded again, in answer to her question. It would have made her laugh. But she had come outside and sat next to me; it was a friendly sort of gesture and I felt like I owed her something in return. “It’s safer,” I said instead.

It surprised her, but not so much that the smile slipped. She leaned back and studied me for a minute. I met her gaze as impassively as I could, but I was uncomfortably aware that she was reading far more on my face than I could probably imagine. She seemed to come to a conclusion after a moment and nodded to herself as she pushed back to her feet.

She turned to stand in front of me and offer me her hand. I took it, and she pulled me to my feet. With a familiar sort of pat on my forearm, she moved past me to head back into her house.

“I’ll see you around, Will.”

I waved a noncommittal reply over my shoulder and headed out of the alienage with her light laugh in the air behind me.

Nobody I passed on the way out gave me more than a disinterested glance. I might not be precisely _welcome_ in the alienage, but from then on my presence was always tolerated.

Hank and Brue were together, as I expected, and met me with outstretched hands. I dropped the pouches into their palms and watched, amused, as both coin purses vanished almost immediately. They walked with me to the practice field we commonly used behind the Chantry – it was empty of everyone but templars, and even then the templars weren’t around much after mid-morning – and we got right back into our old routine.

It was if we hadn’t saved 60-plus people from being sold into slavery the night before, and left the slaver in charge dead in an alley near the docks. It was as if everything was business was usual.

And, I guessed, it _was_ for them. I’d gotten the impression that they had been involved in this sort of work with Natalia for a long time before the Blight, and my first trip out had merely been a resumption of the way things used to be.

Once I’d passed out their rewards, things _did_ go back to normal.  I picked right back up with my old routine, with the occasional morning spent running some errand or the other for Natalia. Otherwise, she gave me a language lesson in the morning and I went out to train after lunch. Natalia’s neighbor, Liss, brought dinner over every night and I spent the evening doing whatever needed done around the house and working on eliminating my accent by conversing with my grandmotherly patron.

Time passed that way for weeks. Autumn was inching towards winter, and the first frost came before Natalia placed her hand over mine again at the dinner table. “I have a task for you tonight,” she said.

Two hours later I was back in the alienage with Hank and Brue, tapping on Ophelia’s door.

“You’re late,” she said, as she ushered us in. Rather than descending into the tunnels under Denerim, Ophelia took us up a flight of stairs, onto a balcony overlooking an alley. One by one we stood on the thin railing – which protested Brue’s weight rather loudly – and pulled ourselves onto her roof.

“Not afraid of heights, are you?” Brue asked as we worked our way across the battered thatch.

We paused at the gap between buildings – they were so crammed together as to be transversable with no more than slightly extended paces – and I made a show of looking down. We were no more than twenty feet up.

I wondered what Brue would think if he knew I had stood at a window fifty stories in the air and prepared to throw myself out as the glass shattered around me.

“No,” I assured him, acknowledging the morbidity of my chuckle to myself.

I expected Brue to break through shingles or shatter overhangs as we leapt lightly across the buildings. It seemed we weren’t the only people to use the alienage rooftops as a thoroughfare, though, and loose edges were shored up or marked. At one point there was even a handrail along a ledge and a helpful guide rope leading to the neighboring roof.

“Yours?” I asked Brue, indicating the rope.

Brue chuckled. “I’m big and loud but I’m not obvious. Won’t turn down the help, though.”

We were on the opposite end of the alienage – near the wall containing one of the gates controlling access to the elven neighborhood – when Ophelia brought us to a halt. She made a hand gesture indicating for us all to get down, and we army crawled to the edge of the building.

The roadway beneath us was wider than most, as it led through the gates, and sparsely populated during that time of night. In fact, there were only three people visible, and they stood almost directly below us, in a shadowed corner where two buildings met at an odd angle. Had we tried to approach this spot on the roadway, we would have been forced into clear view at three different places within the last block.

I tipped my chin towards the shadowed figures below us, and Ophelia shook her head. Hank nudged my shoulder and nodded down the block. There was a group of people – four walking in formation around a fifth – coming down the street at a steady, deliberate pace. They all were built like elves, and walked in the alienage like they belonged there.

Maybe because I was expecting trouble, I found myself studying these figures. They were all armed; the four on the outside had the tips of scabbards visible at the hems of their cloaks, while the one walking in the middle had the outlines of hilts protruding over either shoulder. After another few moments of watching the steadily approaching group, I became convinced they were mostly females. The one in the back was a toss-up, but to be fair I had the least clear view of that person. As they moved under a street lamp I could see they were all looking for trouble, faces turned in different directions and gazes constantly sweeping the road.

Natalia hadn’t given me much information about the night’s task. She’d asked me to go out with the others again and I had agreed without demanding any specifics. No one else had asked for information or offered any up; the other three just seemed to know what was expected of them.

It was probably too late to ask, but I pushed back silently from the ledge and pressed my mouth to Ophelia’s ear. “Ambush?” I breathed, with as little volume as possible.

She canted an eyebrow at me, flashing me a crooked smirk before nodding briefly.

I shrugged and went back to watching.

I had just gotten settled when one of the figures below us stepped out of the corner and planted his feet in the middle of the road. The group of five immediately stopped, maybe five paces away, and I saw hands fly to hilts. Only the elf in the middle appeared unconcerned.

“Got a message for ya, from the Arl,” the man spat, and swept an ugly looking mace into view. Weapon like that is meant to hurt, to _maim_ , and only  _maybe_ to kill. There was movement across the street – two or three more people in the shadows – and the attention of the five elves was drawn that way…

…away from the men in the shadows below where the four of us perched, unnoticed. Hank moved, drawing my attention down, to see they both had long bows drawn, and were aiming arrows at the group in the street.

I froze. We hadn’t discussed the plan. Was there a plan? Knowing what little I did about Natalia in particular and Red Jennies in general, I was pretty confident that supporting the Arl of Denerim in ambushing a group of elves in the alienage was _not_ the angle we would take. I was fairly confident we wanted to stop these archers from poking holes in the people – the women! – coming down the street.

I didn’t have long to be confused. Sandwiched as I was between Hank and Ophelia, laying on our stomachs in a line across the edge of the rooftop, I didn’t realize Brue was on top of the situation. The big man gripped the edge of the roof with both hands, dragged his knees up to his chin and then pitched forward to plummet towards the street.

…except there were two men with long bows between him and the ground, one of whom helpfully broke his fall. Brue rebounded off the – now unconscious – archer, took a couple rolling sort of steps to break up his momentum, and then turned and punched the other hard enough I could hear bones snap.

I hoped the bones were in the man’s face, rather than his neck, but I was grateful for the object lesson:

_Never let Brue punch you_.

The ambusher in the middle of the street was staring, aghast, at the remains of his allies. The elves in the middle of the roadway took the interruption for what it was and moved to take up defensive positions to one side, pulling crates and barrels and general roadside debris into a protective barricade. The group of combatants on the other side of the street didn’t seem to know what to do.

Ophelia swung her legs over the side and dropped, Brue reaching out to grab her and slow her fall. Hank nudged me and I immediately mimicked the movement. Hank dropped to the ground beside me, forsaking Brue’s assistance.

I needed to remember to ask them to teach me how to take a fall.

Brue was charging across the street, Hank was shouting something accusatory and abrasive at the ringleader, and Ophelia stepped lightly into the shadows and seemed to disappear.

I followed Brue, bolstered by the knowledge there was a Circle-trained mage watching my back.

There was a shout, and Hank was fighting the ringleader. The three ambushers darted out from the other side of the street, weapons raised to meet us.

Hank and Brue hadn’t taught me to spar, but to kill. This sword wasn’t blunted like the one I used on the practice field, and the act was almost reflexive, though god knows I’d never killed a person before. I ducked an incoming blow, pivoted, got my left arm up to deflect the next swing and then slid the point of my sword into the gap in his armor under one arm. He stopped moving, rather abruptly, and I swept him free and turned to even the odds against Brue. I entered his fight just in time to see him slice through a man’s leg to the bone, hamstringing him. As the ambusher collapsed to his knees in the street, Brue’s sword swept across his throat and the man pitched forward in a spray of blood.

The third dropped his sword to the dirt road with a metallic thud and put his hands to the sides, palms up.

Brue tipped his chin at me. “He’s yours to watch, kid.”

I gestured for the captive to precede me out of the short alleyway, and pushed him to his knees on the side of the street. He clasped his hands lightly in front of him and settled in to wait. I operated under the assumption that he was putting on a good front and was going to make a break for it at any moment. The alley would have been a more secure place to keep him, but I wanted to hear what went down with the elves we’d just rescued, and I didn’t really think this guy could run from Hank and Ophelia.

Brue was moving bodies, having found a simple pushcart somewhere on the street – they were everywhere, really – and working to pile up the corpses we’d created. The archers he’d fallen on had blood on their collars, and I noticed Ophelia sliding a dagger back into its sheath at the small of her back. The man I’d killed – and I made myself look at him – had a similar blood patch on the front of his clothes, although his was coughed up when I’d punctured his lung. The hard packed dirt of the alienage road had quickly absorbed the rest of the blood spilled, and I wondered if that wasn’t at least a little bit intentional.

The ringleader was dead, too, I noticed – his head was being dropped into a bag by Hank as Brue dragged off the body. Of the elves we rescued, two were disassembling their hastily constructed barricade while the other three were approaching Ophelia in the middle of the street.

“I didn’t think to see you interfere in this,” the elf in the middle, the one with two hilts on her back, said, stepping forward to speak with Ophelia.

Ophelia shrugged. “We aren’t helping _you_ , we’re stopping _them_.”

“Ah,” the other elf said, some immeasurable sadness in her voice. “Do you think I’m one of them now?”

“We’re prepared for you to become one of them,” Ophelia countered. “But we would all love it if you proved us wrong.”

The elf sighed and glanced around, seeming to notice the rest of us for the first time. “You kept one alive?”

“He isn’t the problem,” Hank cut in, and Ophelia snorted a laugh. “He was just following orders. He’s a person, Shianni, not a weapon. Did you forget that already?”

“Hank, I-“

“Easy,” Ophelia soothed, laying a hand to Hank’s forearm. The look he shot her was _not_ one of a man being soothed. “She didn’t tell you to kill him. She just asked a question.”

Hank grumbled something as Brue chuckled and lifted our captive to his feet. “Got anything you wanted to say to Bann Shianni?”

The would-be ambusher shrugged. “Nothing personal. Just told to knife a knife-ear. Lost my wife in the Battle, got to pay the nurse to feed my son. I take jobs where I can get them.”

Bann Shianni covered her face with her hand. “Knife ear,” she sighed. “At least he’s honest.”

Hank dug a coin purse off the ringleader’s corpse and tossed it to the man. “Go home.”

It was caught in mid-air. “Thank you.” Brue and I took a step back, and the man detoured long enough to sweep up his sword and then dart off down the street, vanishing through the alienage gate.

“Where are you going tonight?” Ophelia asked in the silence following the captive’s departure.

“Springing this trap,” Shianni answered with a shrug. “You think I normally walk around with an escort?”

That answer seemed to take the wind out of Hank’s sails. “Yeah, actually. I was afraid you did, now.”

Shianni reached over to slap Hank’s chest with the back of her hand and an almost-fond grin. “Dumbass shem. You think I’d lose everything in a week?”

Ophelia snorted again, as one of the elven escorts chuckled. “We all thought she’d lost her mind when she asked for volunteers to walk through the alienage tonight.”

“Are we done?” Brue asked, lifting the cart full of bodies. “I know you all love to chat, but we got to teach the kid how to keep the guard from panicking.”

“Kid?” Shianni replied.

Hank tipped his chin at me. “Nat’s foundling. Second job tonight.”

“You spent the day on Opie’s doorstep,” one of the other elves said, from where she stood at Shianni’s left.

I wished they would take their damn hoods off so I could see their faces, but I wasn’t about to request it. “I did,” I said instead.

“I would say I hope to see you around,” Shianni said, with an air of amused familiarity, “But it would be a lie. I hope we have no reason to ever cross paths.”

I nodded. She was the new Bann, now, and I was a Friend of Red Jenny. The less she saw of us, the better.

Brue grunted pointedly, hefting the push cart, and the two groups split. Shianni and the other four elves disappeared down the street the way they’d come, while Brue led the way around a corner and down an alley that seemed like it ended a few feet from the street but actually narrowed and twisted around to become a long passageway behind the buildings. Doors opened out from either side – although they all seemed rather excessively locked – and the path ended with a large heavy grate. Hank and I pried it open and Brue rolled the push cart down the ramp the grate exposed, to disappear below the street. Hank and I held the grate open, and some ten minutes later Brue emerged, coughing delicately.

“Somebody didn’t do a very good job down there. Left a damn mess.”

“Did you fix it?” Ophelia asked, rather pointedly.

“Yeah. Left the cart there, though.”

“What’s this?” I asked. Odd that _this_ was the scenario that piqued my curiosity.

“There’s access to the water down there,” Hank answered as we carefully lowered the grate back into place. “Enough of a current to sweep anything out to sea. If you just leave shit on the ledge, it’ll sit there and rot. If you give it a good enough kick it’ll get out into the water and the fish take care of it.”

“You only leave a body for the guard to find if you’re lazy or trying to make a point,” Brue told me, as Ophelia led the way back out of the alley. “Slaver a few weeks back? He was a statement. These guys? Just working stiffs who took the wrong job. Save who you can, drop the rest in the water.”

“I don’t know what people do in the rest of the city,” Ophelia said, as we came to a halt beside the gates that led out of the alienage. “But that’s where anybody starting trouble in the alienage ends up. Mostly bigots and hired muscle.”

I nodded. There were probably a hundred places to dump a body in Denerim. The thought brought back to mind the idea that I’d _just killed somebody_ but I dodged the memory.

“Good night boys,” Ophelia said, and turned to walk home alone. I took a half-step, unconsciously, to follow her. Hank’s hand on my arm stopped me, and I was pulled quickly out of the alienage.

“Nobody in there’s gonna hurt her,” Hank said as we made our way back across town. “Anybody who tries is cooked.”

“He means that literally,” Brue added. “She turned four grown men to charred meat last winter to make the point. Templars combed the alienage looking for her, but she was hiding out with her Friends. Templars seemed to know who they were looking for – Maker knows enough of the elves sold Ophelia out – so when they couldn’t find her they didn’t drag off anybody else.”

“They couldn’t track her?” I didn’t know the word for _phylactery_ but surely, if she was Circle trained, the templars would be able to find her if they knew who they were looking for?

“Nah,” Brue laughed. “She said she had a friend trick the first band of templars who came looking for her into destroying her phylactery” – there was the word! – “and that she was safe.”

“How?” I countered.

Hank and Brue both shrugged. “Never asked,” Hank answered. “You don’t really _ask_ stuff like that to your Friends, kid. That’s not what we’re here for, not what we’re about.”

I felt a weight lift off my shoulders I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. No one was going to ask me where I came from, what I was trying to hide. I didn’t have to worry about being interrogated by Hank or Brue if I let something slip. If Ophelia read something in my face, she would keep it to herself.

I sighed a little too audibly and Brue laughed. “Yeah. Figured. It does apply the same to you, kid.”

“I was there when you threw your shit into the fire,” Hank told me as we turned a corner and I suddenly recognized where we were. “I don’t really _have_ to ask. Not hard to get an idea of what road a man’s walked down, to end up where you were.”

We were walking up to the building Brue lived in, and the big man clapped me on the shoulder before bounding up the stairs and out of sight.

I halfway thought Hank was going to walk me home again, but two more blocks down we split up. I got another friendly clap on the shoulder and we parted in silence.

I knew the neighborhood around Natalia’s house pretty well by this point – she’d sent me out on errands for months, after all – and I found my way without any trouble. I’d expected her to be asleep, as the hour was far past her bedtime, but she greeted me at the door, ushered me in, and locked it behind me. I stirred up the fire, was handed a cup of tea, and before long I found myself telling her the story of the night.

When I got to the part where I killed a man, my voice stopped working.

“Keep going,” Natalia urged.

I swallowed, nodded, opened my mouth. Nothing.

Her knobby hand came into view, swollen aching joints laid softly on my wrist, and then everything poured from my throat. The charge across the road. The briefness of the encounter – moments, really. My sword sliding into his body. The blood gushing from his mouth. His body falling limp to the ground. Turning my back on him to continue the fight. At some point I must have wiped my sword clean and sheathed it, but I had no memory of it. Brue had rifled through the bodies – he would have searched for information, and wouldn’t have thrown valuables into the water when we’d dumped the corpses – but I hadn’t seen it. I had been guarding another man with the bloody weapon I’d used to kill his companion, but I hadn’t ever glanced at my captive’s face.

I could have passed him on the street on the way home and never realized it.

There were _empty_ places in my memory, and the only thing I could feel was shame.

The more I talked, the worse I felt.

I stumbled to a halt, realizing I’d detailed the rest of the night without bothering to hide my accent. I knew for a fact it had tumbled out of hiding, knew Natalia _had_ to recognize the accent of the Qunari. She had been a Red Jenny in Denerim for decades, for fuck’s sake. There couldn’t be much this woman didn’t know in terms of what people said and how they said it.

She didn’t make any of the comments I expected.

She lifted her hand from my wrist, briefly cupped my cheek, and then rose from her chair.

“Get some sleep, Will,” she bid me as she made her way out of the room. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

I stared at the fire for a very long time before I banked up the ashes and did as she’d said.

It was impossible not to think about as I laid myself in the bed in the otherwise empty room she’d given me, months before.

The only conclusion I could reach, as I dropped off into the dreamless sleep I’d come to expect at the end of the hard days in Thedas, was that if Natalia asked me to kill again, I would. 


	8. Surveillance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia keeps an eye on Will, by sending him to keep an eye on Ophelia, who is keeping an eye on someone else entirely, under suspicious circumstances.
> 
> *
> 
> Also, cameos.  
> ALL THE CAMEOS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My work schedule has changed for the summer. I work days now! Like a normal person! So instead of updating when I get home in the small hours of the morning, I'll be posting sometime in the afternoon or evening, depending upon the day my update falls upon.  
> I like the every-four-days bit I've got going, and I'll keep alternating between posts here and posts on Stand Your Ground for at least the next couple of months.

Natalia was not kidding when she said we would talk the next day. It would have been better to say we would talk about it every day for the next two weeks.

How did I feel? What was I thinking? How was I sleeping? It was constant.

I supposed it was necessary. I supposed it was something she had done before. And she was definitely helping, by dragging out the negativity and forcing me to come to grips with the fact that I’d killed another human being.

That’s not something you’re supposed to do, after all. It’s pretty universally frowned upon.

It got to the point, though, that I wanted to talk about anything else.

Literally anything else. I was considering telling her about Cindy, about the bombings that brought me there, about the world I’d been born in, just to get the damn subject to change.

Thankfully, another job came up, and I quickly agreed to go, just to get away from Natalia’s incessant questioning about my mental state. For the first time, the ancient Jenny volunteered some explanation of the work before sending me out.

“It’s just surveillance, for as far as you’re concerned,” Natalia told me over dinner. “There's an added layer of risk here, so Ophelia needs a second set of eyes for safety’s sake. Hank and Brue won’t be told you’re out. Do as Ophelia says and keep her safe, and plan to stay for as long as necessary.”

“How long are we talking about?” I asked. It seemed like a weird thing to add to the instructions.

“All night, at the least,” Natalia answered with a shrug. “Perhaps all night every night this week. Or for the next several weeks. For as long as it takes.”

I figured I could get the rest of the information from Ophelia, so when Natalia didn’t have any more to offer, I didn’t have anything more to ask. I grabbed the down-filled wool coat Natalia had given me upon the occasion of the first freeze a few weeks prior and headed out as the twilight deepened towards full dark.

Ophelia was waiting for me on the outside of the alienage, at the spot Hank and I usually scaled the wall. She was dressed warmly, and had a bag slung over her shoulder a’la Santa Claus. I gestured for her to hand me the sack, and she surrendered it with a silent smile. I expected us to go over the wall into the alienage – Natalia seemed to focus her interests there – but Ophelia led me towards the Chantry. We didn’t go underground, didn’t attempt to backtrack or hide our route. We crossed the broad square in front of the Chantry and entered a neighborhood I hadn’t been in before.

The houses here were massive… mansions, really. _Estates_ even. They were individually walled off, with barred gates and highly controlled access. Ophelia led me through several long, winding streets to a relatively reasonable manor. It lacked the opulence of its neighbors, and from the street it looked like it had been built to give the appearance that it was smaller than it actually was. The bulk of the house was hidden behind a smaller building, with trees and manicured gardens to either side to further block the view from the street. Ophelia walked right up to the heavy gates and made liberal use of the cast iron knocker there. There was a coat of arms on either side of the heavy locking mechanism, looking like a tower on a cliff.

Guards appeared almost instantly – they must have been on either side of the gate, hidden by the three-foot-thick stone wall – bearing kite shields with the same crest. They did not look ornamental. These were two men who had been involved in the defense of Denerim – and likely the defense of Ferelden beyond the city – a few months prior. Their shields bore the signs of new paint over scratches, their armor was unevenly worn, some patches were still visible on their tunics and mending seams could be seen on their gloves.

If anything, the evidence of repaired armor, that these two men were Blight veterans, made them more terrifying. They could have walked around with signs over their heads that said _warning: badasses_ and it wouldn’t have been more obvious than the way they stood, the way they held themselves.

“Good evening, chumps,” Ophelia said pleasantly. “I know you’ve got important houseguests, and I know you don’t give a shit about me, but I need to talk to your betters, so you need to scamper on in there and tell them that there’s an elfy at your gate looking for Loner.”

I expected an argument. I expected a fight. They seemed to shrug me off as her porter – not a completely erroneous conclusion – and saw something in Ophelia that made them take her seriously.

“And does the _elfy_ have a name?” the one on the right asked, somehow dead-pan.

“The Big Shot you fetch won’t ask. But if it makes you feel better, you can tell her it’s Opie.”

With a shrug, the one who had spoken swiveled on his heel and strode off out of sight. There was a discussion as he left – several voices, just out of sight – and three other guards emerged to take his place. They took long hard looks at the two of us and then resumed their positions against the wall.

Ophelia found the hinges in the wicket gate and measured off where it would swing open with her arms, then took a step away from the door and compared the distance. With a nod, she made another, more precise, movement away, as if there was a set distance she needed to be from the gate.

 _God,_ I found myself praying for the first time in years. _God, please don’t let her fireball some poor motherfucker in the face, right here in the street. Please. These shoes are no good for running and these guards all know what I look like._

Either I had Ophelia pegged completely wrong or God was better about answering prayers in Thedas than he ever was on Earth. I heard running footsteps, and Ophelia turned slightly and planted one foot behind her as if about to take a charge. A woman’s voice called out, gleefully, “Opie?” and then the wicket gate burst open of its own accord. A raven-haired human, not much bigger than the average elf, plowed through the open portal and _flung_ herself at Ophelia.

“Loner!” Ophelia greeted the woman, getting her arms around her and pivoting to divert the force of the other woman’s affections.

Once they stopped moving – holding each other at arm’s reach with matching giant-ass grins – I realized I recognized “Loner.”

I’d seen her from a distance, my first day in Denerim. If I hadn’t recognized her features, her blue griffon-bedecked tabard was a dead giveaway.

She was the Warden Commander, Solona Amell.

“I hoped you’d made it through the Blight!” Solona cheered. “I left a message for you in the proclamation-“

“About Shianni, I know! That’s why I’m here!”

“Come in, then! Most everyone’s gone already, or I’d introduce you to the team. It’s just me and Alistair now.“

“Come on, Will,” Ophelia called over her shoulder, and I lugged the sack into the building behind her.

“Sorry, ser, but he can’t-“ one of the guards started to say, eyes locked on the sword at my waist and moving to prevent my entry.

Solona spun on her heel and the face the guard was shown was _completely_ different than the one that had greeted Ophelia.

“If you think for one minute that I can’t rip a porter into sixteen pieces faster than you can shit your pants, Corporal, you’re an idiot as well as an asshole.”

“But, ser he has a-“

“He has the same Maker-taken sword I pulled off some fucking cutthroat in an alley the week before the Landsmeet. I know who he is and I know where he got it and I know you’re standing about three steps over your station. _Corporal_.”

“Yes, ser. Sorry, ser.”

“Stupid shitlicker sees a braid and a pair of tits and thinks I’m incapable of using my damn eyes. Like I didn’t just kill the fucking arch-demon with a stack of moldy paper and my _wits_. Maker take the next cockbite who tries to protect me without it being his Void-taken job.”

“Maker’s Breath, Loner, you haven’t changed a dram,” Ophelia laughed.

Solona’s face morphed again, her emotions chasing one another flashfire across her features. “You’re one to talk! Maker, Kaiopi, you don’t look a day older. It's like the Blight didn't faze you! Is that an elf thing? If so it is _so unfair_.”

“It’s just Opie,” Ophelia chided gently, but the censure was quickly lost in their matching grins. “And you know us elves keep our youth by bathing in the blood of human children under the careful tutelage of demons. Where were you during Chantry Lessons One through Nine as apprentices?”

“Arguing with Jowan, most like,” the Warden Commander retorted, and a flash of remorse crossed her features, followed by rage and then an intense sort of sadness. Then all the negativity was gone in a surge of glee as she nudged Opie in the ribs and taunted her. “I know where _you_ were. Sneaking through the hallways looking for a chance to hit on Ser Cul-“

“I _was not_ ,” Ophelia squealed, and it was like watching a pair of twelve year olds meet up after summer vacation. The elf slugged the human – hauled off and punched her square in the right breast – and then Solona had her in a headlock and the two of them tumbled into the dirt and nearly pitched down a flight of stairs into a terraced garden, giggling and shrieking the entire time.

“You’re looking better,” a man’s voice interrupted the ridiculous scene I was held captive by, and I turned to find a familiar face approaching me from a passageway I hadn’t previously noticed. This manor was a damn _maze_.

The man addressing me ignored the antics of the two mages in the dirt, and put a hand to my shoulder, recognizing me as easily as I had him. “And of course Solona recognized the sword. Tightwad she is, knew right down to the penny how much everything we had was worth and where was best to sell it. I might have lost her a couple silvers by giving that one away.” Alistair rolled his eyes with a smile and motioned for me to follow him. “They’re going to be at this for awhile, I bet, judging by the way Solona tore ass out of the room when she heard someone asking for _Loner_. I’m pretty sure I know why you’re here, anyways.”

I must have appeared to be the most trusting simpleton in the world, but this was Alistair Theirin I was following. It was hard to know anything about the man and _not_ be willing to follow him. “She’s not what I imagined,” I confessed, being extra careful to hide what traces of my accent were still left.

“Talking now, are you?” Alistair countered with a smile. “Glad to hear it. And, no, Solona is…. Well.”

“Solona is _what_?” the woman in question demanded, coming up behind us at a menacing pace.

“The single, uhm, most, uh, amazing woman in the whole of, ah, creation.”

Solona grunted and threw an elbow at Alistair, who winked at me as the Warden Commander blew past us to take the lead. Ophelia was at my back, then, and she beamed at me when I shot an exasperated glance over my shoulder.

”You’re here to fuck up Vaughan, right?” Solona asked, shouldering open a door at the end of the long hallway to expose a long, twisted stairwell up.

“Surveillance only,” Ophelia countered, graciously inclining her head to accept Alistair’s offer to hold the door and let her follow on Solona’s heels. I began the ascent behind her, and Alistair took up the rear, latching the door behind us before following. “I’m just somebody visiting an old friend, or if you’re more cynical, an elf visiting a shem who climbed high in the world and might have some coat tails left for a knife-ear to cling to.”

“You don’t want what I have,” Solona said, softly, at the top of the stairs. She had one hand on a door latch and her shoulder resting on the wood poised to push open this door as she had the last one. “You could have done this, Kaiopi. You could have managed what I’ve done. But, Maker, I’m glad you didn’t have to. I’m glad you got a normal life.”

Ophelia punched Solona again – in the left breast this time. “It’s Ophelia now, asshat.”

“Fuck you,” Solona laughed, pushing open the door, her moment of gravity ended as quickly as it began. “You didn’t have to change your damn name. They shattered your phylactery, I _watched them_ do it. And Duncan-“ her face fell again, a dozen emotions flickering across her features before being swept clear “-Duncan ground what was left into sand and threw it into the fire. You could walk around with a flashing sign over your head saying _Kai_ -“

The punch this time was in the face, and Solona fell backward through the open door. Ophelia followed, with an aggravated sort of growl as she threw herself onto the Warden.

Alistair nudged me away from the melee, and we walked away from the two mages to pass through a small room and then onto what had to be a roof. We could walk all the way around the proper manor house from this series of buildings, connected by breezeways to form a continuous roof. The more I saw of this estate, the more I realized it was rather brilliantly designed, with the defense of its occupants in mind.

“There’s a room set up for you two up here,” he said, leading me to another stairwell which took us onto the roof of the main house. “I would say you don’t want a fire, for surveillance sake, but from the stories I’ve heard of your partner, I’m sure she can keep it hidden, even on a rooftop in the middle of Denerim.”

“Thank you, ser,” I said, as we crossed the roof to a small room on the far corner of the building. That door was pushed open and I was gestured through.

“How are you getting on?” he asked, and I wondered if, in some corner of his mind, I wasn’t his personal project.

“Better,” I answered him honestly. “The Chantry was… good. They sent me to, uh, a good woman. She’s given me work and shelter and she… she makes me talk, ser. A lot.”

Alistair laughed, and I was surprised to see him seem to relax. “I’m glad. Some men don’t do well with a sword, but you… you seemed to need it. I’m not known for reading people, not like Solona is, but it is nice to get it right for once.”

“For once,” Solona echoed, mockingly, and Alistair sighed expansively.

“Are you done abusing me for your friend’s sake?” he asked, irritably. “I’m of half a mind to just turn you over my knee so she gets the proper idea of a mage’s place.”

If looks could kill, Alistair would have combusted on the spot. He lifted his chin, though, as if daring Solona to start shit, and I remembered the man was a templar. He probably could hold his own against his Commander.

Ophelia ruined his valiant last stand by giggling until she snorted, which caused Alistair to flinch with laughter and Solona to pitch over to the floor.

“I’m not abusing you for _her_ sake,” Solona laughed. “I’m abusing you for mine and mine alone.”

“At least you’re honest,” Alistair allowed, and with a chuckle and a shake of his head, he swept Solona off the floor and over his shoulder. “Good luck with your _surveillance_ , Friends. Let us know if you need anything. Well. Let _me_ know if you need anything. This one is too full of herself to fetch and carry for an elfling mage and her porter.”

Solona protested – feebly, as she was still laughing – and Alistair carted her off unceremoniously.

Ophelia took a deep, cleansing sort of breath, and then made sure the door to the little room was closed tightly. There wasn’t much in there – a potbelly stove in a corner, and a series of windows towards the floor, pitched downward.

“Arrow slits?” I asked, realizing why they were shaped as they were.

Ophelia nodded. “Redcliffe is nigh impenetrable, so if the Arl is going to be targeted it’s going to be while he’s travelling. Eamon is in Denerim often, so this manor is essentially his second home. They’ve done what they can to make this estate as secure as Redcliffe.”

That explained the red-and-white tower-and-cliff heraldry. I suspected I would learn a lot of them over the course of time.

She pointed at one of the arrow slits, and I lowered myself onto my stomach on the icy stone floor to peer through. “Stone building, due East, reddish masonry.”

“See it.”

“Arl of Denerim’s home.”

“All right. What of it?”

“We need to know his habits.”

I eased away from the window. “Why?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but it came out suspicious.

Highly suspicious.

Ophelia snorted a laugh. “He’s a right ass, that’s why. Remember what those men said, before trying to kill Shianni? How they had a message for her, from the Arl?”

I grunted. I did remember that.

“Right. Well. Once upon a time, Vaughan was Arl Urien’s son, and he interrupted a wedding in the alienage and kidnapped the women. Took them back to the prison under his estate and raped some of them. Planned to sell them to slavers when he was through. Some of the men launched a rescue attempt, and I showed up just as they were leaving and went along. Vaughan got away, but we got the women out alive. Then the Blight happened and Urien died and Vaughan gets the Arldom back when Solona ripped out Howe’s heart. That was a mistake on Anora’s part, and we’re going to fix it for her… before the asshole has a chance to put anything else into Shianni.”

I found myself nodding. Imagining the politics of the entire mess… if Shianni didn’t put a knife in this guy, _somebody_ needed to. I wanted to ask why Ophelia went along with the rescue mission. I wanted to ask what name she used to carry that was so dangerous she wouldn’t let Solona speak it even to only me and Alistair. I wanted to ask who was actually going to kill Vaughan, who we were watching him for.

But I had too many things I didn’t want people to ask me, so I kept my silence.

I dragged over the sack I’d carried all the way up here and untied the end, opening it up to see what Ophelia had deemed important to this mission.

There was a familiar-looking basin at the top that I immediately retrieved and handed to her. She took it with a mysterious sort of smile. There were down-filled blankets tightly rolled into narrow cylinders that I unfurled and fluffed. There were three or four small sacks of rations and as many skins of wine as water. I lifted one of the containers of alcohol and quirked an eyebrow at Ophelia.

She smiled at me, only slightly more reserved than the cheek-splitting grins she seemed to only aim at Solona. “We have to sit up here and watch him. We don’t have to stay _completely_ sober for it.”

 

*

 

The surveillance of Arl Vaughan was the single most bizarre job Natalia ever gave me.

All told, Ophelia and I sat on the roof of Arl Eamon Guerrin’s Denerim estate for eight days. Solona Amell, the Hero of fucking Ferelden, popped in like a jack-in-the-box at completely unpredictable intervals, verbally assaulted Ophelia, politely offered me refreshment or entertainment, and was a completely ridiculous asshole for never more than twenty minutes before vanishing again.

“She always like that?” I asked, maybe the fifth time she appeared.

Ophelia laughed. “She’s a bit worse now, but I suspect that’s the pressure talking. When she’s with the Arl or the Queen or anybody else, she has to keep it all buttoned up very tightly. When she’s someplace safe – like with me – she can go as far the other direction as she needs to.”

“She seems…” I trailed off, searching for a nice way to say-

“Fucking nuts?” Ophelia offered, and I laughed.

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

Ophelia nodded. “Irving saw her for what she was. He was the First Enchanter at the Circle we grew up at. He picked Solona and I out of the pack for extra lessons. It was just me for the first few years, until Solona got a bit older and caught his eye. If I hadn’t started first, I would have thought he only brought me along to keep Solona together. He taught her how to focus when she needed to, and how to maintain control over the Fade when she released control of her impulses. She seems reckless and emotionally unstable – and to an extent she is – but for the most part she is only exercising control over the things she has to. She has a command over her magic – and the Fade – that would put most any other mage to shame, short of First Enchanter Irving or maybe Senior Enchanter Wynne. When she’s in public, or around people who need a certain image, she’s the tight-lipped, high-brow, stiff-backed Warden Commander who was in the parade. But in her personal life? She’s a fucking clown.”

I coughed a laugh at her conclusion. ”I noticed.”

“I’m glad you’re getting to see this side of her. It’s good for her to let loose, now that she’s on a stage all the time. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before she vanishes into the wilderness again.”

I was pretty sure that was exactly what the Hero of Ferelden was supposed to be doing in the years between the Blight and the Conclave, but I couldn’t say that to Ophelia. She seemed to lose interest in the conversation anyways, going back to her extensive notes on the activities in the house she was watching. I was mostly superfluous; I made sure Ophelia ate, I fetched water and kept watch on the rare occasions she needed a break. She slept a few sparse hours in the very early morning, which was the only time I actually felt like I did anything even remotely valuable.

Her notes were cryptic but thorough. She had already calculated the average time of each guard patrol, and now she was determining which individuals were faster or slower, and where each group was at what time. She noted minute differences in heights and armor, so individual guards were identifiable and their common pairings were discernible. When she napped in the early morning hours, only the guards were active, but from her notes I could tell she was watching the servants' schedule, the average timing of deliveries to the kitchens, and the rough circadian rhythms of the entire household.

By the fourth day, her notations were minimal, but she was still watching for outliers and exceptions.

The fourth day was exceptional for other reasons, however.

“Opie!” Solona’s voice called from somewhere beyond the door. “Opie, you awake?”

“Maker’s farts,” Ophelia grumbled good-naturedly under her breath before calling, “Yes!”

“You and Twitch want some breakfast?”

“Did she just call me Twitch?” I laughed.

“I told you,” Ophelia laughed. “She sees everything.” She pushed open the door and called an affirmation to Solona.

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” I admitted when Ophelia settled back in to watch the Arl of Denerim’s home.

She laughed and shrugged. “It fits. Everybody I know has described you as _twitchy_ at some point.”

“So? Shouldn’t I get to pick what I’m called?”

“No,” she retorted, her smile a clear tease.

“You did,” I shot back, and the smile drained off her face.

“Yes and no,” she admitted, but Solona burst in with a sack overflowing with fresh baked – and probably pilfered – scones and cut off whatever Ophelia was about to tell me about her nickname.

I found I desperately wanted to know her real name.

We worked quickly to set out our breakfast spread, and Solona dropped to the floor to partake in her share of the spoils.

“We need to wrap this shit up so I can get on the road,” Solona informed us, with a wave to indicate the surveillance Ophelia was doing. “We’ve found no signs of Blight on the last three sweeps through Denerim, the weather’s cooperated, and nobody’s developed Blight sickness in over a month. It’s time for Alistair to lead the sweep through the rest of Ferelden, and I need to get to work on rebuilding the Order. I’m off for Amaranthine as soon as we put this asshole down.”

“What’s in Amaranthine?” Ophelia asked.

“Apparently my new arling,” Solona drawled, leaning back on her elbows to sprawl nonchalantly on the floor beside us. “Anora gave it to the Wardens as an apology for her father’s idiocy.”

“So much for not mixing with politics,” Ophelia noted. I fought back a grin as Solona openly laughed.

“I know, right?”

“Who are you taking with you, if not Alistair?”

Solona’s laughter dried up so quickly as to seem to have never existed. “Not you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Solona shook her head. “You don’t want this, Opie. Trust me here. I will only recruit into the Wardens people who have nowhere else to go. I would never invite anyone I considered a friend to Join.”

“Secrets for a reason, yeah?” Ophelia asked sadly.

Solona nodded.

We sat in companionable silence for awhile, then – the longest I’d ever been in Solona’s presence without hearing her voice. She seemed to be ruminating pretty hard over something, and Ophelia and I were happy to leave her to her thoughts. We were both surprised when Solona stood and left without another word.

“Wow,” I managed, as we both stared at the door closing behind her.

“I think she just realized she’s only ever going to surround herself with criminals and personal enemies,” Ophelia murmured. “If she doesn’t want friends – or people with any other option – to join, that limits who she’s going to recruit pretty sharply. It’s a lonely world she’s crafting for herself.”

I found myself nodding. What little I knew of who the Warden Commander recruited was limited to Anders, and he was going to leave her shortly after Joining. In the end, it wasn’t my problem, and Solona didn’t need me or my help even if it was.

“She calls me _Opie_ because that was my nickname as child, before they took me to the Circle,” Ophelia said into the silence a few minutes later. “I admitted it to her one night in the Apprentice quarters. She’d arrived not long before I had; her family was known for magic and they’d been watching her closely for signs. She was four years younger than me, and I was scarcely ten. She couldn’t pronounce my name, so I told her what my cousins had called me to help her along. My name was Kaiopi, before the Circle, and I couldn’t take it up again when I escaped; that’s what got you dragged back. In my head, that name belongs to a Circle mage, a prisoner, and if I use it again that's what I'll be. My cousin Senna suggested I keep answering to Opie – so the family didn’t slip up – and we picked a name that Opie could believably be the diminutive for. So instead of Kaiopi Surana, I’m now just Ophelia Tabris, cousin to Senna and Shianni.  And you, Will… I’ll never ask you what you’re running from, and I’ll never ask if Will is your real name, but I’m going to follow Solona’s lead. For as far as I’m concerned, your name is Twitch.”

I nodded dumbly, and she went back to her surveillance.

I hoped she thought me struck silent by the courtesy of not asking me any questions, as well as the offering up of so much information about herself. It was unprecedented, from my perspective.

But what had actually stunned the language off my tongue was the name she casually dropped.

Tabris and Surana were _definitely_ names that meant something, especially in the context of a friend of Solona Amell. The woman I knew as Ophelia could have been the Warden Commander, could have…

But she wasn’t, and I fought to drag my mind away from my memories of a video game. I had only a general sense of the Origins of the Warden-Commander, and the what-if game was just going to make my life difficult. My takeaway needed to be _Ophelia is seriously a badass_ and maybe _Ophelia trusts me with her real name_.

“It was Will,” I reassured her, long moments later. One of her pointed ears twitched as the corresponding eyebrow rose, but she didn’t look away from the window or the narrow shorthand she was notating her log book with. “It’s short for William, like Opie is short for… Ophelia. My family name was McIntire.”

“Was?” she asked softly, still not turning around.

I struggled to choose my words carefully. “I’m the only one left in Thedas,” I enunciated carefully. It was true – Andraste had _left_ me here, in a manner of speaking. “If there even are any other McIntires… they wouldn’t be any I know.”

“So perhaps _Twitch_ is better for you, in the end,” Ophelia answered, sparing me a glance over her shoulder.

“There are worse things to be called, I suppose.”

Ophelia graced me with another sad smile. “I’m sorry you don’t have anyone to share your name with.”

I nodded to myself as the words bubbled up from where they’d lain, hidden. I couldn’t tell her the truth, not the complete story at least, but I could get at least part of it off my chest. “The last I saw of the girl I wanted to marry was a plume of black smoke.”

I watched Ophelia’s eyes slide shut and her head slowly sink as she breathed out a pained breath. She carefully set her quill in the corner of the writing board, set her things aside, and pushed up off the floor. She took two steps towards me, sank to her knees, and drew my head into her shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her waist and took a long, shuddering breath and then let myself be comforted.

I don’t know if she expected me to cry – I was long since out of tears – or if she just wanted to give me the opportunity, but after a few minutes she leaned back and brushed her thumbs across the corners of my eyes. When they came back dry, she smiled sadly at me and then pressed a brief kiss to the center of my forehead.

“I managed to escape the Blight with the same family I entered it with,” she said, pulling away and returning to her window and the task at hand. “I would happily share them with you if I thought it could in any way reduce your loss.”

“Thank you,” I managed, at a bit of a loss for words. “I have Natalia, now, and our team. It is enough.”

“Our team,” she repeated, laughing. “Yes, I guess that is what we are.”

“Thanks, Opie,” I told her.

“You’re welcome, Twitch,” she replied.

After that day, we rarely ever referred to who we had been.

And she never called me anything but Twitch.


	9. Passing Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see why Twitch leaves Denerim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to an unfortunate scheduling error (and apparently I forgot how calendars work) this chapter is both a day late and mildly out of order. It should have been published before the most recent chapter in Stand Your Ground (Escape: Fin Cousland) because... well. You can probably guess why.  
> My schedule is stupid for the next couple weeks - my next free moment will arrive on June 12th - but I don't intend to muck up the posting schedule again. My apologies for being late!

“The Arl’s dead,” Natalia told me at breakfast on the third morning after Ophelia had decided we had as much information as we could get from the rooftop of the Arl of Redcliffe’s manse and we’d both gone home. “Warden-Commander Amell left late yesterday evening for Amaranthine, as the rest of the Guerrin party departed for Redcliffe. The Arl of Denerim passed sometime in the night; I expect Arl Eamon will be turning around to come back for the funeral.”

“When did you find out?” I asked, spreading butter on a scone as she set out the tea.

“The crier should be by any time now,” she answered, and I blinked.

“That’s not what I-“

“The Arl is dead!” A man’s voice called from outside. “Foul play! An assassination by the Antivan Crows! The Arl is dead! The Arl is dead!”

I quirked an eyebrow at Natalia’s suspicious foresight.

The elderly woman gave me a blissful sort of smile. “Goodness. The Crows! They must have not been able to find a single trace of evidence, to reach that conclusion. Someone must have done a very thorough job.”

I laughed helplessly and shook my head. “I’m sure Bann Shianni had a very good time someplace very public last night.”

“She got all caught up with the Revered Mother, discussing how best to arrange for Alienage elves to attend devotions when often it isn’t safe to be out of the Alienage. And it really isn’t, you know. Poor elves are waylaid going to and from the Chantry all the time, as if they’re being punished for deciding to pursue an education in the Maker. Shianni is probably still there, herself, since the Bann walking about Denerim alone at night is quite unacceptable a risk.”

“Was there something you needed me to pick up or drop off today, Natalia?” I asked, still laughing.

“Oh, no, dearie, you’ve done quite enough. You should get back to practicing with Hank and Brue.”

And so I did. For awhile, everything got back to normal.

The new Arl of Denerim possessed another one of those names that made me nearly swallow my tongue. He was the younger brother of the Teryn of Highever, Fergus Cousland; a respected warrior by the name of Finnegan. He’d escaped the murder of his family by escaping through a hidden passage with a small retinue of men and half the Highever mabari kennel, if the story was to be believed. The men and their pack of hounds had traced Teryn Fergus to the Korcari wilds, where the remaining Highever forces were in full flight from the darkspawn horde that had just destroyed Ostagar.

The Cousland brothers then led a valiant rearguard action that saved most of the inhabitants of Lothering from the Blight, although the village itself was lost. Queen Anora awarded the younger Cousland the Arling of Denerim in recognition of his success in the war, and also as restitution for the loss of Highever to Arl Howe’s treachery at the behest of her father, the late Teryn Loghain.

It should be noted that Finn Cousland and Bann Shianni seemed to hit it off famously, and the rumor mill instantly began churning out insinuations that Arl Finn was paramour to Queen Anora. By all accounts he was a good man; he wasn’t ever the target of the Jennies, at least, and that was all the information I needed.

Denerim continued the long process of rebuilding, and I stayed in the employ of Natalia as a Friend of Red Jenny. Our little four-person warband did the dirty work that the little people of Denerim needed. The city was lucky in that - with the exception of the when the Landsmeet was in town - the nobility was often generous and always fair. Most of our work was in stopping slavers, exposing corruption, and keeping out-of-towners in line. I was always the new guy, though; Hank and Brue never let me slip up, and Ophelia always had my back. Somewhere along the line, I stopped counting the number of men I killed; it was too easily forgotten in the number of lives we saved.

Natalia shared with me the news that she got from the rest of the Jennies in the world, although I learned precious little about them. Everything out of Kirkwall was terrible, but it never ceased to be precisely what I expected. 

“Mark my words,” I told Natalia one brisk winter morning as 9:33 Dragon wound down to a close. “The Arishok is going to turn hostile. It’s only a matter of time.”

“You think?” Natalia asked mildly. By this time she was pretty well convinced I had fled to Denerim to escape the Qun and in turn lost my family to the Blight. She didn’t spread the story around and I had no reason to dissuade her. The truth was far less believable, after all, and she had definitely picked up on the Qunari accent I had spent the better part of two years eliminating from my voice. “You do seem to understand the motivations of the Arishok better than anyone else I know. Should I warn my counterpart in Kirkwall?”

I shrugged. “I’m sure whoever it is can see the mess with their own two eyes. Us telling them it’s going to go south will probably not be welcome, much less heeded.”

Natalia sighed. “And right again, I suspect. I’m getting much too old for this, Will.”

“Nonsense,” I scoffed. “You can’t be a day past forty.”

She laughed into her tea, as she always did, and I went off to train with Hank and Brue as I always did.

I came home that night to find her slumped over in the chair by the fire, the cold cup of tea balanced perfectly in her lap between two limp hands.

I crouched in front of her, long since prepared for this moment but not ready to admit it had finally come.

I thumbed her eyes closed, arranged her more comfortably in the chair, set her tea on the end table, and went to the Chantry to find Sister Charla. Just like that, my time in Denerim was over.

Natalia’s Last Will and Testament had been left with the Revered Mother, and in the coming days it became known that the house – and everything in it – had been left to me. Hank and Brue were unsurprised and congratulatory, but Ophelia met my eye and saw my resolve.

I could not settle down in Denerim.

I had a date to make, in the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in another eight years.

“Leave the house to the Jennies,” she whispered, drawing me aside. “Or sell it to them, it settles out the same. Take the money she has hidden in the house, outfit yourself, and hit the road if that’s what you want.”

“It is what I want,” I admitted, and then caught her elbow as she nodded and turned away to begin putting the wheels in motion to free me from homeownership. “Ophelia. Come with me.”

“Twitch,” she smiled, shaking her head as she cupped one hand around my cheek. “No.”

I snorted. “Spoilsport.”

“I do too much good here,” she countered, drawing away. “And you’ve been itching to run for years.”

I watched her leave and felt Hank and Brue watching me, across the expanse of the broad square in front of the Chantry. I crossed the hard packed soil to stand beside them and form the third side to the triangle that was an apt symbol for the previous two years.

“Brue’s wife has another baby on the way and somebody’s got to transfer all of Natalia’s contacts and networks to the rest of the Jennies,” Hank told me without preamble. “We could use you here. If you leave, you’re leaving alone.”

I nodded. I’d hoped for more, but there’d always only been one way this could play out.

“Help me get set up before I go?”

Hank clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go see Gorim.”

 

*

 

Gorim and his bodyguard, Durin, were the only two dwarves I’d met on the surface without tattoos on their faces. Gorim never talked about leaving Orzammar, but Durin had gotten roped into a couple of missions for Natalia and confessed – to Ophelia, but where I could hear – that he was some kind of nobility, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to take the casteless brand.

“I know it’s unreasonable, but I keep hoping that my brother will come around, especially now that he’s settled and has a couple kids. I’d sign whatever papers he wanted, if I could just go home.” He’d cast a baleful eye at the sky. “I’m not meant to be away from the Stone.”

I’d started calling him Aeducan in my head, but that – like many other things I thought about – needed to never show on my face. I was getting better about not wearing every thought and reaction on the surface of my skin, but it was too little, too late. Nobody but Natalia had called me anything but _Twitch_ since the business with Arl Vaughan.

Durin was conspicuously tending to his arms and armaments in front of Gorim’s little stand in the largest of Denerim’s marketplaces. “Twitch,” Durin grunted as we drew near. “Hank.”

We both nodded.

“Heard about Natalia.”

We both nodded again.

“Too bad, that. Good woman. Type you hope never dies.”

“That’s the Maker’s own truth,” Hank agreed.

“Natalia was what was holding me to Denerim,” I started to explain, but Durin just waved us on.

“The soles of your feet have been itching for the road for as long as I’ve known you,” Durin echoed the sentiment I’d already heard several times that day. “Let’s put that inheritance to good use.”

Gorim was, by nature, a seller of Dwarven arms and armament. The better part of three years spent living in Denerim had taught him how to alter Dwarven armor for humans, and all it took him was time.

The price, I was sure, was already factored in.

“Bronto leather and silverite,” he decided, once we’d discussed budget and fighting style. “Keep it light while maintaining strength. Expect three fittings over the next four weeks, with another three in the week after. We’ll have it perfect by First Guardian.”

“Five weeks?” I demanded. “What, do you have to raise and skin the bronto?”

“You want to get jammed into armor sized for Durin?” he countered. The dwarf in question chuckled.

Sighing, I agreed to his terms and timeframe, and with the requisite down payment lightening my purse, I made my way back to the home Natalia intended me to keep.

She was going up on a pyre in the Chantry square the next morning, her years of work as a Jenny recognized by the commoners by deed if not by name. The house was almost painfully empty.

I couldn’t imagine spending five weeks in the now-cavernous building.

In fact, I was immediately determined _not to_.

I spent the better part of that night packing what few things I owned – and the things I knew would mean something to her Friends – and at first light I slipped out with the money for Gorim, another three hundred silver, and what few possessions I’d collected in a bit more than two years in Thedas. I shut and locked the door behind me, and I never spent another night in Natalia’s house.

The sun was just peeking over the rooftops as I tapped on the door of the house in the middle of the alienage that leaned conspicuously towards the great tree.

“Opie home?” I asked as soon as I heard the latch lift. The door shut before it had opened enough for me to identify who was behind it. Ophelia appeared momentarily, blinking at me blearily over a steaming cup of tea.

“Gah, it’s too early for this.”

“Do you remember,” I asked her, leaning my body against the doorframe and pitching my voice conspiratorially, “sitting on the roof of that house for eight days, while your best friend cavorted about like an asshole?”

Ophelia snorted a laugh. “Yes.”

“Do you remember offering to share your family with me?”

The smile slowly melted off her face as she picked up on my mood. “Can’t stay in that big empty house alone?”

I shook my head.

“Get in here, shem,” she laughed, pushing the door open.

Over tea at the Tabris breakfast table that morning, I explained the time frame for my armor coming out of Gorim’s, my plan for Natalia’s house, and – after a long pause and some intense soul searching – I confessed my longer time line.

“I have someplace I promised I would be,” I told Ophelia and her cousin Senna over the table. A few other elves – all of them women – wandered through the room. They all knew Ophelia’s real name, though, and had sheltered her from the Templars for years. Something about that confidence helped me find my voice. “It’s still years off, but it’s not the sort of date you skip out on. I don’t know exactly where I have to be or exactly when it is or how I’m going to get there… but I’m going to hold up my end or die trying.”

Senna Tabris was squinting at me as if she’d never heard a shemlen make less sense. Ophelia reached across the table and laid a gentle hand on my wrist, reminding me of Natalia with a pang. “Does this have anything to do with a plume of black smoke and a girl you were going to marry?”

My jaw clenched involuntarily and Ophelia nodded. Senna’s face suddenly cleared. She looked a lot like Ophelia, although with short-cropped, flaming ginger hair in place of Opie’s long blonde locks. She reminded me of the first elf I’d ever met, in the Denerim chantry… which was completely reasonable, since Sister Nesiara was one of the other elves in the house, though I saw her only briefly as she left, headed to the Chantry for morning devotions.

I learned, over the course of that first day, more about Ophelia’s family than I had in the previous two years of working with her in the name of Red Jenny. There were only two males in the family, as a result of the actions of Vaughan years before. Ophelia’s sister, Kyler, had married Gil and had a son named Felix a year before the Red Wedding in the alienage. Their family lived with Ophelia on the ground floor of her house.

The second floor of the leaning building was occupied by Kyler and Ophelia’s first cousin, Senna Tabris, whose wedding had been interrupted so infamously. Senna’s husband, Nelaros, had been killed by Vaughan and his men, as had her cousin and her brother, although that bit of information had been whispered to me surreptitiously when Senna was away, and their names never mentioned. Apparently Senna – who I knew could _also_ have filled Solona’s shoes as the Warden Commander – had a permanent chip on her shoulder over the death of her twin brother when he attempted her rescue. She took in her brother’s widow, Nesiara, who had in turn dedicated herself to the Chantry. Senna had also taken in the widow of her cousin, a quiet elf named Valora. They were in Ophelia’s part of the house as much as they were on the second floor, but almost never spoke when I was around.

Apparently, Shianni – as Senna’s first cousin and Ophelia’s second – had lived in the house with them through the Blight, and now had a small home of their own somewhere nearby. I suspected it was the slightly more solid building next door, but the place Bann Shianni lived was not public knowledge.

I tried to do the same thing for the Tabris clan as I had for Natalia, since I was taller and stronger than any of them, being a shem and all. I was immediately and harshly rebuked.

“Are you kidding me?” Senna demanded, arms crossed and feet planted. “No. Put the damn hammer down and get your stupid ass into the house.”

“But I can reach this easier than-“ I tried to explain, gesturing to the loose bit of trim I was trying to tack into place on the overhang above the stoop.

“We do _not_ need the sort of attention that comes from having a _shemlen_ working on our house. We’ll be the laughing stock of the neighborhood. Get in here, idiot.”

“But-“

“I will end you, shem.”

I put the hammer down and went inside. When Ophelia stopped laughing, she informed me that I was her guest and I was to keep a low profile for the duration of my stay.

“It’s bad enough, having a human in the Alienage. But to have you doing work on the house is like saying the place isn’t up to your standards, you have to improve our conditions in order to-“

“That’s not what it is at all!” I protested.

“I know. And you know. And Kyler knows. But the asshole across the common doesn’t know that. And we would all hate for Senna to have to stab him. Again.”

“Again?”

Ophelia grinned at me. “Again. He’s the one who points the finger at me every time a Templar wanders through the alienage. Senna took exception to it.”

I could hear Senna snort from the second floor through the thin boards that made up the ceiling of main level, which made Ophelia’s grin broaden.

I stayed out of sight as best I could. I was remembered in the alienage as the shem who’d sat on Opie’s stoop for an hour one day, and nothing else would eclipse that in the public perspective. I was tolerated, but that didn’t mean I needed to flaunt my presence.

It was three weeks into my stay before everything with Natalia’s estate was finally settled. I spent the day in the Chantry with Sister Charla, putting my rough signature on all the paperwork. The house was given to the Chantry, on the surface, with the understanding that Natalia’s Friends would essentially have the running of it. Any valuables inside were mine to dole out as I chose, and aside from a few hundred silver I took to keep myself alive for the foreseeable future, most everything went to Hank, Brue, Ophelia, and those of the Friends who could most benefit from it. Giving the house to the Chantry felt, to me, as if my debt from my first weeks in Denerim were finally paid. Charla and the Revered Mother had acted like it was a kingly gift, at least, and that was good enough for me.

The day I was absolved of my property in Denerim was the day I sat on Ophelia’s roof and talked about my future – and my past – for the last time.

“Just us here, right?” she asked, handing me a steaming cup of tea. She’d asked me to chat, and I’d thought it would be about Natalia’s possessions and the decisions I’d made for them.

“You’re the better judge of that,” I reminded her.

“Alright,” she granted with a smile. “Tell me about this date.”

“What, today? It's, what, the third week of Wintermarch?”

She elbowed me in the ribs. “This date you have to keep. You don’t know when or where, so how is it a date?”

I should have been more worried than I was. After two years of knowing she had my back, of easy acceptance and a refusal to ask questions, I just couldn’t bring myself to think she would react negatively to anything I had to say. I was one of only a handful of people who knew her real name outside of her family, and I was the only one of those who hadn’t known her in the Circle.

“I can’t be completely honest with you,” I warned her.

She nodded. “I understand there’s things we all have to skim over.”

“Alright. I was sent here with a purpose. I had lost… everything… and I was given the opportunity to start over. I didn’t know the language – not even the alphabet – and I had nothing more than the clothes on my back. There’s somebody else coming, somebody important, and I have to be there when she shows up. I have to help her. I don’t know exactly how or exactly when, but it should be sometime in 9:41, in the Frostback mountains.”

“What, is it a mission from the Maker or something?” Ophelia laughed. “You don’t strike me as a crazy Chantry type, regardless of what Hank and Brue say you were like when they met you.”

When I didn’t answer her question, the smile slid off her face.

“You’re scaring me, Twitchy.”

I coughed a laugh and shook my head, letting my gaze drop to the steam rising off the cup I held between both hands. We were two days into the new year, and the midwinter air was just this side of too cold.

“Twitch?”

“Do me a favor?”

I could see her nod in my peripheral vision.

“I’m going to tell you something. I need you to take it as simple fact. Don’t ask me how I know, don’t tell anyone else, and _never_ let anyone know I told you this.”

“Okay.”

I turned to look her in the eye. “Things are going to get bad. Really bad. The Nevarran Accord is going to be nullified and there’s going to be a war between mages and Templars. Whole Circles are going to be annulled with no warning, no _reason_. I know you don’t intend to leave Denerim, but if you do, if something draws you away… stay out of Kirkwall. And stay the _hell_ away from Haven.”

“Haven?” she whispered. Her face could be in the dictionary over the word _shock_. "Where's Haven?"

“It might not mean anything now, that town. It’s being built up, turning into a pilgrimage site. It’s where Solona found the Sacred Ashes of Andraste that healed Arl Eamon. Did she tell you about that?”

Ophelia nodded dumbly.

“Stay the bloody fuck away from Haven.”

Ophelia swallowed and nodded again. “But that’s… isn’t that where you’re headed?”

“Yeah,” I laughed, although I didn’t find any humor in it. “Hopefully I time it out right so I don’t show up until after everything goes to shit.”

“What happens there?”

I shook my head. “You know, I wish I knew. I _could_ know, if I’d just listened better to Cindy. But I didn’t, and so my information is half-assed. I don’t know exactly when or exactly why or exactly how but I know everything goes to shit.”

“Cindy?”

“The girl I was going to ask to marry me.”

“Twitch, none of this makes any _sense._ ”

“I know. You have to just trust me.”

She laid a hand on my wrist, a gesture she had to have picked up from Natalia. It raised a lump in my throat, but not as much as it would have a week prior.

“I trust you.” She whispered.

“Come with me,” I answered, letting the words tumble out before I could second-guess myself. “We can keep each other safe.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean it, this time.”

The response was odd enough to make me blink. “I meant it last time.”

“No, you… Twitch, when you want something, _really_ want something, I can _feel_ it. It’s like… I don’t know. It’s probably only all the time I spent in the Fade, learning to find demons for Harrowings, but your will is palpable. When you _want_ something, there’s this surge of willpower behind it. Sometimes you don’t have to even say anything, I can feel you wishing for things to turn out a certain way. And they _do_. It’s only supposed to work that way in the Fade. It’s the oddest thing.”

“You learned how to find demons for Harrowings?”

“Don’t change the subject. You have the strongest will of anyone I’ve ever met, stronger than even Solona. If I hadn’t spent two years with you and seen you nearly spitted-“

“That totally would have missed me, if Hank hadn’t-“

“-and repeatedly dodge death and known that I _knew_ you, I would worry you were something bizarre, an abomination or maleficarum. But you’re not. You’re just Twitch. And you’re going to be okay even without me watching your back.”

“You’re not coming,” I surmised as she fell silent.

Ophelia shook her head. “I told you before. I can do too much good here.”

I let my disappointment settle before nodding. “Keep your head down. I mean it.”

“Whatever, dad.”

I snorted a laugh and the moment was lost.

She went inside a short while later, visibly shivering, and I told her I wanted a moment alone before I followed.

I was thinking about all the times I’d wanted something since I came to Thedas, and how it seemed like I’d gotten it every time. A sword, an alibi, an answered prayer; I needed to read, and Charla had brought me somewhere that I could learn. Once I started running it through my head, the list seemed almost endless. How much of it was Andraste’s design, and how much was the world apparently submitting to my will?

What if it worked?

“I need to forget Earth,” I whispered to myself, fixing the concept in my mind. “I need to forget where I came from, forget where I’m going, forget _all of it_. I need to become a part of Thedas and do what I have to in order to be in Haven _after_ the Conclave. I need to forget why and just let my subconscious drive me. I need to be _just Twitch_. I need to be a Blight survivor and a man-at-arms from Denerim.”

I felt an uncomfortable sort of weight settle on my scalp, and I focused on those words. _Just Twitch_.

_When the Herald arrives, when Gwen Murray s_ _hows up, I can worry about being Will again._

_For now, I’m just Twitch._

_Just Twitch._

_Just Twitch._


	10. Down the Kings Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Twitch begins his life outside Denerim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also introducing a character not everybody will recognize, but l'm pretty sure a couple of you will be very excited to see our boys making Friends.

My armor from Gorim was ready, as promised, on the first day of the month called Guardian. It fit like a dream, like nothing I had ever owned before. Nothing pinched, nothing pulled, nothing was too long or two short or _just_ _good enough_. It was perfect.

It was worth every red cent.

When Gorim made suggestions about belts and packs and rain gear, I shut my mouth and listened.

He set me back more than I had planned, but I figured I would be able to sleep outside about twice as often with all the gear I acquired, which would save me a fortune in the long run.

It was the fourteenth day of the second month when I had everything I needed to leave. The chief thing I had been waiting on was cooperative weather; the first hints of spring had been delayed by a brutal sort of storm that coated Denerim in ice ankle-deep.

I was not putting off leaving because I loved living with the Tabris clan.

I would keep insisting on that until I believed it.

“Stay,” Ophelia said, as the sky first started to lighten towards dawn and I settled my pack on my shoulders. I stood on the stoop, dressed and ready to leave. She stood in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around her to ward off the cold and looped over her head to hide what I knew was an epic case of bed hair.

“Come with me,” I countered.

She laughed, and for a moment – one shining moment – I knew she’d at least considered it.

Somehow, that made it worse.

“Write,” she requested a moment later. “And visit if you can.”

“I will write,” I agreed. Natalia had sent and received enough letters that I knew how the system worked. If I could go back and do it again, I would at least consider being a courier instead of a man-at-arms. “I can’t promise to visit.”

“You have a date to make,” she recalled, and the memory swirled in the back of my brain. _That thing I decided to forget_ , I remembered, and let it go.

“So I should get moving,” I told her, and took a single step away from the door.

“Wait,” she said, and I had to swallow back the lump that rose up in my throat. I stopped moving, though, and watched her struggle with whatever it was she needed to say before I left.

She closed her eyes, bit her lip, sighed, and bounced from foot to foot for a moment, while I did my best not to laugh at the obvious indecision.

“You look like Loner,” I informed her, and a grin cracked her face.

“Come here and give me a hug, asshat,” she insisted, unwrapping the blanket enough to free her arms.

I did as the crazy mage told me, as had been the rule for two long – fantastic – years. I threaded my arms between her slim form and the super-heated blanket, and felt her wrap her arms around my neck.

“Don’t let them break you,” she whispered. “Don’t trust _anyone_. Nothing is ever free. Remember your signature. And keep aside 10 silver; it will be enough to get you back to Denerim from anywhere in Ferelden if you can get to a city and find a Friend. You’ll always have a place here.”

“Thank you, Ophelia,” I murmured into her neck when she fell silent.

“Now get out of here before you see me cry,” she sniffed, and I laughed as I set her down and obediently turned my back.

“I’ll see you around, Twitch,” she called, just like she always had.

I waved a hand over my shoulder, just like I always did.

This time, her light laugh didn’t follow me out of the alienage. I heard a muted sniffle, and then a soft _thud_ as her door closed.

I made my way to the city gates in silence. The city was only starting to awaken; the cold and the resilient snow pack combined to reduce the people outside and muffle those who had to be out of doors.

I had never crossed the big city gates before, not once in more than two years. They rattled open as the sun rose to some indistinguishable point beyond the houses, and I walked through unchallenged.

It was very hard, not looking back. I managed nearly a mile down the road before I stopped at the top of a long hill and turned.

Denerim from the outside was completely incompatible with my memory of the inside. It looked almost serene, from here. The walls were even, made up of clean lines and proud workmanship. Inside those walls were a warren of districts, lopsided houses, uneven cobblestones and countless tunnels, passageways, and hidden alleys.

I watched the smoke drifting out of a hundred chimneys and wondered, for a moment, which lonely plume had passed Ophelia’s chilled hands on its way to the sky.

I turned my back, and I walked on.

Thedas was created for walking, I decided. There was a village or road side inn every twenty miles or so down the road. I was trying to put more distance between myself and Denerim than that pace would allow, and I put in eight to ten hours of hard walking every day. I’d been preparing myself for this trip for two years, after all; I had boots that fit and a pack that was well-designed and practically weightless on my back. Twenty-five miles was my minimum in a day, and I could make thirty if the terrain wasn’t hilly.

I slept in hay three times the first week, once in a field and twice in a friendly farmer’s barn. A couple of copper and a promise to be gone at dawn were all the hay lofts cost me, and the haystack was free. If I was coming to a village as the daylight started to fail, I paid five copper for their smallest room and slept with the bed pushed against the door.

I stopped twice to buy provisions, and in all spent two and a half silver for a week on the road.

I had the equivalent of three hundred silver hidden in a wide belt – tailored for that purpose – between my shirt and my fine dwarven armor. I hadn’t had to dip into the portion of my inheritance from Natalia I had accepted, as I’d managed to set aside a dozen or so silver from odd jobs I’d done in Denerim over the years.

The next week was warmer, and thus cheaper; I spent three nights in hay stacks, one in a farmer’s barn, one under the stars, and one luxurious evening in a lovely inn with baths in a natural hot spring, just outside West Hill. My tab came in just under two silver, and I hadn’t wanted for food, water, or warmth once.

At this rate, I could survive two years without working a day, and that was even with setting aside ten silver for an emergency trip to Denerim and an additional ten for medicine or an armor repair.

The roads were clear, the Blight was gone, and stories of a Grey Warden leading a sweep through the countryside for leftover darkspawn and looters had miscreants laying low and crime minimal.

In short, there was no work for a hired sword.

I doubled back from West Hill, not wanting to head south (towards the pole, I surmised, since the Korcari Wilds were reputed to be _frigid_ ) in the winter and having no desire to spend any time in Orlais. There wasn’t much to my north – just the Storm Coast of the Waking Sea – and so I left the king’s road and ventured into what I guessed to be mostly wilderness between the highway and the ocean.

I was only partially right. There were wide swaths of forest and more difficult terrain, but there were also little farms and homesteads dotting the landscape.

I met a family on the fourth day out of West Hill who was willing to exchange five pounds of dried meat for a day of hauling wood and water on their farmstead while the man of the house recovered from a winter cold.

That family directed me to three women living alone – a Blight widow and her sisters – some ten miles away who were having trouble with a persistent suitor. One of the sisters was quick with a sword, and the other had every mannerism I had seen in Ophelia that she’d picked up in the Ferelden Circle, so I didn’t offer my sword arm. I did, however, agree to be seen with one of the sisters on the road to and from the village. We chatted amiably for hours until she admitted the truth of the situation. Her name was Beckah, she was an apostate, and had no desire to marry; a husband could discover her magic and turn her in, or her child could be born a mage and they could both be dragged off to the Circle. She and her sisters had created a story of a marriage to a travelling soldier – which also explained where she was prior to her escape from the Circle. When she’d run, she’d found her warrior sister – named Seline – and they’d moved from the village of their birth to live with their newly widowed sister in the North.

I walked her around the village, right past the suitor’s home, and stopped on the road and _glared_ at the house until hands appeared from darkened windows to pull shutters closed and the front door audibly locked.

“May I write you, sirrah?” Beckah asked as the widowed sister – Lesiel – stuffed as much dried food and wrapped bread as she could into my pack for my journey onward.

“Absolutely,” I laughed.

“I cannot address my letters to _Twitch_ ,” she chided, and I laughed again.

“You call me whatever you like, then,” I said as I tossed my pack onto my shoulders. “I’ll write you when I’m in one place for more than a night or two.”

“Her maidenhead thanks you!” Seline called as their garden gate swung shut behind me and my feet sought out the road once more.

I tried to not to laugh, but Beckah’s screech and Lesiel’s barked retort, “Bull _shit_ , that’s been gone for five years!” had me chuckling as I made my westward.

I put down a blighted dog in the next town – it had been hidden in a barn for over a year, in the vain hope a cure could be found – and walked away a silver richer, even after I’d paid for supplies and two nights in the inn.

I made my way gradually to Highever, where I knew the Teryn to be a good man and there to be a standing militia. I didn’t want to enlist long-term with a noble, but other people would come to Highever to hire men-at-arms and it served as a hub for mercenary work in this part of the world.

It was the first day of the fourth month of 9:34 Dragon when the word reached me that the Arishok had been slain in Kirkwall, and Meredith Stannard had named Garrett Hawke the city’s Champion. The news was already weeks old, but that just meant it was a confirmed fact rather than rampant rumor. The first whispers probably reached Denerim just as I had left.

The news was unsurprising to me. I had, after all, told Natalia this was what would happen.

_That’s that thing you forgot. Keep moving_.

Highever was breathtakingly beautiful.

The castle was minimalist and highly functional. It sat slightly separate from the walls surrounding its associated village, so the populace didn’t need to be involved in the capture of the castle. It made the teryns living there more vulnerable, but I heard it had saved the lives of all the people living in the village when Arl Howe had betrayed and murdered Bryce and Eleanor Cousland in the weeks before the devastating loss at Ostagar.

Fergus had the reputation of a good, just man; his little brother had been doing very well indeed as the Arl of Denerim and the family was generally adored. You could see that in the town. The buildings were well kept, the roads were clear and the faces were generally smiling.

A hundred paces from the warm welcome of wide open gates was a broad town square, bookended to the right and left by the town hall and the Chantry, respectively. Running right through the center was the main road through the village, although it parted in the middle to run around a broad billboard like an island in the River Dane.

“Work Available” was scrawled helpfully down either side of the billboard in broad block letters. The rest of the surface was covered with notices, requests, and ads.

There were enough papers tacked up that it took me five minutes to find what I wanted. Once I spied the notice, though, I knew it was exactly what I was looking for.

I followed the instructions on the paper – from memory, as I had left it tacked up where it was – down three progressively narrower lanes until I came to a winding path up a short hill to a stone structure built directly into the town wall.

I made quick work of the thin brass knocker – nine taps, a rhythm Natalia had assigned me – and almost immediately the door swung open.

There were three people in the room – two men and women – and all of them had a shield on their back with the heraldry of Highever on it. They had swords at their left hips, and they were wearing armor that was clearly functional rather than ornamental. Beyond that, all similarities ended.

One of the men was an elf, while the other two individuals were human. The elf was clearly Dalish, although I hadn’t encountered any in Denerim. His Vallaslin was a deep sort of blue that matched his eyes, and it made his pale skin seem thin and frail. He had the slim bone structure of an elf, but he had many years of sword training under his belt and there wasn’t a stretch of him that I would call soft. He wore armor made of layers of green-dyed leather and hardwood called _ironbark_ that only came from Dalish traders. His feet were wrapped rather than booted, and his blond hair was tied back at the nape of his neck to form a tiny ponytail.

The other male had opened the door, and was a study in red. His hair was ginger, his cheeks were ruddy, and his nose had all the color of a twenty year whiskey habit, if none of the shape. He had built his armor to match his complexion, wearing blood red leather and drakestone mail. His eyes were a watery sort of jade, and he had laugh lines an inch deep.

The third was clearly the boss. She had jet black hair of a similar length and cut as the elf, tied back in the same fashion. Her armor was matte grey, unassuming but solid. She was the only one in actual plate, although when she stepped away from the desk I could see it was the style the templars had worn in Denerim. Rather than the sword of mercy emblazoned on the middle of the breast, she had the crossed spears and raindrop of Highever, to match their shields. Beyond her armor, her clothing was all shades of blue.

“Should I be dressed in yellow?” I quipped, briefly at a loss when the door stood open and three faces stared at me in various degrees of surprise. “I didn’t see a dress code on the notice, else I would have stopped and bought a cloak or something.”

The elf’s face flattened, while the red man laughed and the leader cocked an eyebrow to match the quirk upwards of a corner of her mouth.

“I don’t know your signature, sirrah,” the red man said, seemingly content to hold this conversation in the doorway as he didn’t stand aside or motion for me to enter.

“It’s never been out of Denerim before,” I answered. “You didn’t tap back for me to be able to judge yours.”

That drew a smile from the elf and a brief frown from the boss.

“What is it doing here, then?” The Boss asked. The two men’s faces went blank as they waited for my answer.

I met her eyes. “I didn’t have any desire to stay once Natalia was gone.”

Her eyes flickered with recognition. “Your name?”

“Everybody but Natalia called me Twitch,” I told her.

She smiled at me, and the nodded for the red man to let me in. “And what did Natalia call you?”

_That is for me to forget, and not for you to know_.

“Friend,” I answered simply. “Anything else went to the flames with her.”

“Forgive the caution,” the red man started to say, but I waved him off with a smile.

“No need. We live in troubled times.”

“He’s Ricker,” the woman in charge told me, indicating the red man, “but everybody calls him Boomer.” As he nodded his greeting, she gestured at the elf. “The Dalish there is Alan.”

“And you can call me _Alan_ ,” the elf added. It had the air of an old argument, and I bit back a smile.

“I’m Elayne, but everybody around here knows me as Siren.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, nodding all around. When I was confident we’d obeyed the forms of polite society, I crossed my arms across my chest. “So. The note on the board said you’re hiring swords?”

Siren smiled. “We are. The times are hard; troubled, as you said. And a good company with solid backers and respectable references can make a killing.”

“And you’re backed by Jennies?” I prompted.

Boomer mimicked my stance, crossing his arms across his chest. “Kid, I _am_ Jenny.”

 

*

 

I was given my choice of bunks and my pay was set at a silver a fortnight – five copper a week – with a percentage of the take in jobs and a secure place to keep my stuff. I ended up bunked with Alan, since I had long since learned that elves smelled better than humans as a general rule, and didn’t believe in a lot of possessions. The room Alan had claimed had three beds equidistant across one long wall, with a heavy trunk at the foot of each. Boomer had a sack of various padlocks, and I fished out one that looked familiar; it reminded me of the lock that had completely stymied the blonde kid with narrow fingers who was brought along whenever we needed a ‘pick.

I’d heard she’d decided to go by the name Sera.

I smiled and tossed the lock to myself a few times as I made my way to the bunk on the opposite side of the room as Alan’s.

“You are aware there are other – _unoccupied_ – rooms available?” he asked with thinly veiled outrage in his tone as I unpacked my bag into the trunk.

“I am. And I’d rather jump in now and get a roommate that’s not a walking pile of stink rather than gamble on the new recruits.”

Alan’s eyebrows went up, but if he had any further thoughts he kept them to himself.

My task with Boomer’s outfit – Siren only looked like the ringleader to provide a layer of protection for Ricker the Red – was to go through recruits as they were vetted and help pick individuals who would both build the good reputation of the fledgling outfit, and could also hopefully serve in other cities in Thedas as Friends of Red Jenny.

…because there are always Friends willing to help, but there aren’t always good people with swords available to have their back.

I sat down on the first morning I woke up in Boomer’s outfit with three clean sheets of good paper – a whole copper apiece from the Tranquil merchant in the Highever marketplace – and I wrote the letters I had promised.

First, to the sisters Briarcliff, specifically the lovely Beckah who, as far as anyone in their town was concerned, would always have my heart. I told her I could be found in Highever for the time being, and I would let her know if and when I moved on, to help her keep up her charade. I left it unsigned; if she wanted to show the thing around town it would be better to not have people see that I signed my name _Twitch_.

Second, to Hank in Denerim. It had only been a couple months since I saw him, but I gave him a thorough if succinct summary of my travels to date. I thought he would appreciate the fake relationship with the apostate in West Hill, although I didn’t actually out her as a mage. If anything, the whole thing reminded me of his ongoing “affair” with easily three dozen women in The Pearl. I was fairly certain he would be more interested in Alan than anyone who hung on him in the brothel, but it was none of my business.

That didn’t stop me from describing Alan to him, though.

In detail.

The third letter was far and away the hardest to write. I didn’t know what to say to Ophelia. Everything that I thought to put to paper was trite, or unnecessary, or insufficient.

 

_Opie,_

_I promised I would write. I didn’t promise it would be good._

_I’m in Highever, with Boomer and Siren and Alan. They seemed to recognize Nattie’s name and my signature. I’m doing as you told me, though, and checking with you rather than trusting blindly. Have you heard of them? Are they Friendly?_

_I took a job posing to be the absentee suitor of a girl out by West Hill. I sent the whole story to Hank._

_She reminded me of you._

_If you were there, though, the whole charade wouldn’t have worked. So, I can honestly say there is one good thing about you not coming with me._

_As of right now, it’s the only one._

_Twitch_

 

I spent another copper apiece to add them to the courier’s bag before he left Highever the next day. I heard from Beckah within three days – in a letter addressed to _Cedric Laucet_ which struck me as hilarious – before I’d had a chance to do much more for Boomer than prove I knew which end of the sword was pointy. We trained, cleaned, planned, and trained some more; until we had an actual outfit and a couple of jobs it was all we could do.

Which meant I was in real danger of spending my entire salary on postage.

Before my letters could have even reached Denerim, though, Boomer’s outift got its first growth spurt.

A country boy from just outside Highever wandered in, a hopeful look on his face and the promising musculature of a dozen summers working on a farm on his shoulders. He had shaggy brown hair and eager blue eyes.

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked from my perch on a barrel just inside the open gates.

He was wearing a leather jerkin over the sort of unflattering clothes you found on farmsteads in Ferelden. The people here _worked_ , they didn’t waste time or money on flippery or finery. 

“Karl,” he answered, obediently.

“Karl?” I repeated.

He nodded eagerly. “Karl Glennon, ser.”

“You looking for a job, Karl Glennon?”

He tipped his chin up and met my eye, and I instantly liked him. “I’m looking to make a difference, ser.”

“You afraid of a fight?”

He grinned – a better smile than most townsfolk could boast – and shook his head. “I’ve got a dozen brothers, ser, and half of ‘em I’m even related to.”

“And you’re probably one of the middle, eh?” I pressed. “Oldest brother will get farm, the next couple got sent off to trades, and the baby will stay home until the bitter end, but the rest in the middle are expected to find their own way and send home what they can.”

“If I can get them a silver a month, ser, I’ll get husbands for my sisters,” he affirmed earnestly.

He was impossible _not_ to like.

“Come on, Karl Glennon, I’ve got somebody for you to meet.”

Boomer and Siren were both immediately enamored of the kid, but Alan flatly hated the name _Karl_. “It sounds like someone coughed before addressing the Arl.”

The kid went a bit red in the face but kept his peace. If anything, it cemented his place.

“Glennon, then,” Boomer decided, and the kid was all smiles again. “We’ll give you a couple days with Twitch, room and board included, to see how you do with a sword.”

“Thank you, ser. I won’t let you down, ser.”

Glennon took to a sword like a fish to water. I’d picked up a shield like Siren’s – templar design but with the Highever heraldry – and quickly got used to Glennon’s face-splitting grin being the only thing visible above the upper lip. When Boomer threw him his first silver – a fortnight’s pay – he was the king of the world. He could send a silver home every month and still have a silver – a whole silver – to keep for himself.

Teaching Glennon was a lot like teaching the men I’d met in Denerim, and I fell easily into the old routine that had made up my days. The kid was a natural, and it wasn’t long before our daily exercise brought in enough bodies to fill our bunk rooms.

We left a bed open in Glennon’s room, though – because it was the only thing he ever asked for.

“My best friend, ser,” he said to Siren one bright summer afternoon. “He’s a year behind me, but he intends to join me. He’s… he’s the best, ser. And if you could save him a spot, I’d do… I’d do anything.”

“If he’s half as good as you are, he’ll be worth the wait,” Siren told him gently, and he left the office beaming.

We got our first high paying job not two weeks after that.

“Request for extra security up at the castle,” Siren announced over breakfast. Only Alan and I were aware that Boomer was the real boss; we never saw a reason to give up the illusion. The four of us were also the only ones with signatures within the network of Friends, which was something else we never saw a need to divulge. “All the Banns beholden to the Teryn are coming up to get their stories straight before the Landsmeet. I guess Fergus is expecting at least a little bit of trouble. He wants us to step in and make sure nobody important gets their heads knocked.”

“That’s the job on the surface,” Boomer told me in confidence that afternoon. We were meeting for lunch at the edge of the practice yard, watching the eight men and women in the outfit following Alan’s lead through afternoon exercises. “Seems there’s a spot of road where travelers keep disappearing. Mostly elves. Been following up on it… traced it to a cove on the Storm Coast where they’re being shipped off to Tevinter. Followed the paper trail back from there to the Bann who owns the land just before that spot of road. Thought it was too obvious, but no… he really is that stupid. Hit a patch of rough luck after the Blight, some investments didn’t pan out, and he needed the extra income to supply his wife’s lifestyle.”

I nodded. It was a story I’d heard before.

“You ever been a part of something like this?” Boomer pressed.

“Do you remember when Finn got the Arling of Denerim?” I said in lieu of an answer.

Boomer’s bushy ginger eyebrows nearly met in the middle of his face as he frowned at me. “Of course I do.”

“Took somebody eight days of watching Vaughan’s house before that could go off.”

Boomer’s face cleared. “That _wasn’t_ the Crows?”

“You know, Natalia was awful happy that everybody thought that was the Crows,” I laughed, “but she never said anything to contradict it.”

Boomer leaned back and laughed. “Oh, that beautiful, brilliant bitch. I miss her.”

“So say we all.”

“I can’t go,” he said, drawing the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Siren and I _have to_ be seen with the Teryn. I think it will be a three-person job. So you and Alan need to pick a recruit to break in.”

I nodded. “I’ll talk to Alan then.”

Boomer clapped me on the shoulder. “Good man.”

Alan and I had long since made our peace with sharing a room. The third bed in the room was removed – one of the beds in another room got wrecked, under suspicious circumstances I decided were none of my business – and so we never ended up with an additional roommate. It made for a convenient place to sit and discuss the recruits without actually appearing to be holding ourselves separate.

Boomer had filled Alan in on the entirety of the job, as well.

“Glennon,” the elf insisted as soon as the door swung shut behind me. “He listens, he’s quick on his feet, and he doesn’t waste a lot of time with questions. If you give him a command in the heat of the moment he’ll follow first and wonder later. If we have to take somebody untried, I want it to be him.”

He had his hands on his hips as if prepared to argue with me.

“Well, good,” I sighed, and turned to walk right back out of the room and report our choice to Boomer. “I’m glad I don’t have to make you see reason.”

The door closed on Alan’s snort, so I couldn’t be sure if it was laughter or disbelief.

I had informed Boomer of our decision – it was the one he was hoping we’d make – and was on my way to grab Glennon in the training yard and pull him aside for a disclosure and some individualized training when a young boy, maybe 10 or 12 years old, ran up to me.

“You the one ‘ey call Twitch?” he asked, stopping abruptly at my side.

“I am,” I answered carefully.

“Letters from Denerim, ser,” he said, handing me the envelopes. “A copper apiece.”

“Assholes didn’t pay their own postage?” I laughed, shaking my head. The boy shrugged, and I handed him the coppers. He disappeared, and I realized he was very likely lying… but news from Ophelia was definitely worth two coppers.

Hank, too, of course.

I opened Hank’s letter first, by chance. He soundly cursed my presumption at describing Alan, but managed to sneak in a question about the length of the elf’s hair, which made me laugh so hard I had to sit down or risk falling over. He’d been busy in the previous months, making sure Natalia’s network of eyes and ears in the city didn’t die with her. I didn’t think he was taking over the red mantle, as it were, but he was going to be up to his elbows in work for the foreseeable future. He ended the letter with the pained admission that I was missed.

I folded the letter back up and tucked it under my arm, turning my attention to Opie’s missive.

 

_Twitch,_

_You wrote! You actually wrote! And here I thought the rumors of your literacy were grossly exaggerated._

_Hank told me all of your news, not realizing you’d written me as well. I’ll note the vastly different content in our letters. Should I plan to use your letters as a notice to go find Hank and get the real story? He **was** more appreciative than I would have been of your rather loving description of Alan, I’ll grant you that._

_To answer your question, yes, those are all known associates. I did a quick check through Natalia’s old records and they seem beyond respectable. I’m almost jealous. Almost, but not quite. I’m pretty sure Senna could take any of them in a fight. She’s taken your spot in our foursome and it’s almost as good as having you around. I say almost because she doesn’t blindly follow my orders like you did. You spoiled me there, shem… now I have to get used to free thinkers and it is, as you would say, crimping my style._

_When you get sick of the small-time work you’ve got out there in Highever, we’re going to be pulling some pranks in the Landsmeet that will make all of us rich. Feel free to come back if you want some real work._

_Ophelia_

 

I kept the letters in my breast pocket all day, through my conversation with an elated Glennon and subsequent training session with him and Alan. Both papers – slightly rumpled but no worse for wear – went into my footlocker that night after being read through several more times apiece. I would wait and write them back after the job, when I had something more to say.

The Job, as it was referred to by everyone in the outfit, was set to begin three days hence.

It, like everything else in life, did not go as planned.


	11. Charging On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitch meets many more important people. Very important people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to, once again, apologize for the delay in posting and make a promise that the next update will again appear in the appropriate span of time.  
> My life is full-on bananas, however, and I need to stop writing checks I can't cash. I'm going to try very hard to update more frequently than the AO3 average, but I don't have the next chapter written yet so I can't tell you when it will arrive. I have a very solid idea of how I'm going to bridge into the next section of Twitch's Tale, but until I try writing it and see how it works, I make no promises.  
> However!  
> I am on a freaking _roll_ on Stand Your Ground and I've got three more Escape stories that some of you are going to be really excited about. And I'm getting really close to starting in on the DLC sequel from Hellen's POV... I'm finishing up another play through now, which is part of the reason my writing is falling behind.  
>  I'm here! I'm working! Nothing is being abandoned! And if I go more than a few days without posting I get comment withdrawal and die a little inside so don't worry about me disappearing. Just... don't get mad if I fail at the every-eight-day updates.
> 
> In other news, my eighth wedding anniversary was Wednesday, which means it was the 10th Anniversary of the day my husband nearly died in Iraq and didn't. There was drunken debauchery and an awful lot of house guests. That's a good reason to not get any writing done, I think. :-D

The biggest problem with Boomer’s outfit, in my not so humble opinion, was the lack of diversity.

Boomer was a sword-and-board fighter.  
Siren was a sword-and-board fighter.  
Alan was a sword-and-board fighter.

Me. Glennon. The whole damn mess of them. Shield on one side, sword on the other.

More than two years of a mage at my back had me spoiled. I knew a Circle-trained apostate was a nearly priceless ally (that I had walked away from) and not likely something I would ever see again. That said, an archer would have been nice. Maybe a lock pick? Somebody in felts and suedes rather than plates and mail, someone to infiltrate and survey the ‘scape.

So when the time came to spring our trap on Bann Romen, we didn’t have stealth or range as an option.

No.

We kicked down the damn door.

Glennon, as the new guy, was responsible for watching our backs, and making sure nobody came upon us unaware. Alan, who was a touch faster than me, was to take out Romen’s two guards while I brought down the slave-trading asshole himself.

It was a quick, dirty fight. Romen didn’t get tipped – the best thing about working with Jennies is the utter lack of double agents – and was literally caught with his pants down. My boot had barely landed on the floor boards after breaking the lock on the door before I had a foot of steel in his ribs. He was dead before he could lift his fat ass off the chamber pot, much less fight back. His guards were in an adjoining chamber – likely giving him some privacy while he moved his lordly bowels – and Alan took one down while I pivoted and swiped my sword across the other’s throat. The whole thing was over in less than a minute, but the job wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the escape.

Glennon locked the door behind us – just as we’d found it, if a little bit damaged – and I moved to the closed window, which we knew led to a series of mostly-flat roofs we could use to flee without being seen. I threw open the shutters-

-and saw the bars.

“Andraste’s pucker,” Alan hissed. “When did they put on bars?”

I craned my head to look at the work. “Yesterday, it looks like.” The saw dust hadn't had a chance to blow away, and the day before had been the first calm day in a month.

“So much for not being tipped,” Alan continued in the same tone, as he cast about for a plan B.

While he went to check the other windows, Glennon joined me at the window.

“If it was done yesterday,” he said softly, “it had to have been done by the Smith’s apprentice, Barro. I saw him come in with a bundle of what could have been bars and leave empty handed. He’s big and tough and strong but he likes shortcuts. Here.” He pointed out a place that looked like all the rest of the metal to me. “He skipped fasteners in three places, but here? Here, he skipped _two_.”

“It’ll be weak there,” I guessed.

Glennon nodded. “Got something to use a pry bar?”

“The Bann had a cane,” I reminded him, gesturing to where the stout pole laid, forgotten, at the corpse’s feet.

Glennon dove for it, scurrying back as I carved a hole in the wood below where the bars had been shoddily installed in the window frame. Glennon had the bann’s cane jammed in place as Alan came back into the room.

“No good, the other windows are all-“

“Come here and pull!” I interrupted.

Alan, bless him, did as I asked. He grabbed the very end of the cane and pulled himself off the ground to suspend stiff-armed off the floor. Glennon and I pushed down and a slow, screeching sort of groan announced our success.

Loudly.

We’d made a big enough gap to slip out the window, and Alan – the smallest – went first. Glennon – the youngest – followed. I had my feet through and was tilting my hips to fit when the latch to the bann’s door rattled.

“My Lord? Bann Romen?”

I pushed out a bit recklessly, but somehow managed not to catch my arms or armor on the loosened window. As the door was pushed open – because the lock was definitely broken, Brue had taught me well – I was still utterly visible in the window, my head and shoulders still inside the building.

_I’ll have to leave Highever._

Siren and Boomer and Alan and the whole group will have to leave.

I flubbed the job and doomed a dozen people to the King’s Justice.

“Excuse me,” a voice called in the hallway, and the door slowed its swing open. Stopped. Inched closed.

“Can I help you?”

“A man sent me to find the Bann. I knocked a moment ago and he called for privacy.”

It was only a few seconds of a delay, but it was enough. I reached in a hand and swung the shutters closed to buy us a few more moments and then dropped from the window to the roof below.

Alan and Glennon were already moving, and fast. We dropped off the roof into a ridiculously manicured shrubbery – an homage to the teryn’s late wife, if I remembered correctly – and from there into a series of alleys and switchbacks until we emerged on the wrong side of town from the gatehouse our outfit called home.

We made our way carefully back towards our base of operations, as most of the group was at work for the Teryn and we didn’t want to be too obvious. Nobody seemed to glance twice at us, and as the door softly closed between us and the majority of Highever, I released a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Glennon went to his room, changed clothes, and immediately set out again.

Alan and I laid down in our room, not talking, each staring at the ceiling and reflecting on _just how close_ we came to serious trouble.

“Guys,” Glennon said, interrupting the silence what could have been minutes or hours later.

I lifted my head to see Glennon standing in our doorway with what could have been his brother.

Same build. Same color. Same general bone structure and facial features. I’d seen full siblings who looked less alike.

“Karl said I could find work like he did?” the new kid said, and I shot off my bed.

“Your voice,” I said as I crossed the room and they both broke out in grins. “You’re the one in the hallway. You just _saved our asses_.”

“Well,” Alan corrected me dryly, “you saved _Twitch’s_ ass. We would have said he acted alone.”

“Thanks, Alan,” I replied reflexively. “You make a man really feel loved and accepted. YOU.” I turned my attention back to Glennon and his friend. “Did Glennon tell you-“

“I saw you go down the hall,” he shrugged. “You didn’t have any reason to be in there. I figured I couldn’t lose anything by intervening, and maybe I would help. It seems I did.”

“Help! Yeah, you definitely helped. You got a name, kid?”

“Higgins,” Glennon said before the new kid could answer. Higgins seemed simultaneously relieved and pissed. “We grew up next door. One big family, his and mine. Higgins was who I told Siren was coming up behind me.”

“Come on, Higgins, I’ll buy you a drink,” I told the newcomer, slapping him and Glennon on the shoulders and turning them toward the door. “When Siren gets out of the castle and away from the teryn we’ll get you set up.”

 

*

 

In the next three hours I found out Higgins hated his first name, couldn’t figure out how to call Glennon something other than _Karl_ , and had actually been training with a sword under his uncle’s tutelage. The elder Higgins – his father’s younger brother – had fought the Orlesians under King Maric and defended the homestead during the Blight.

If Glennon had taken to swordplay like a fish to water, Higgins was a damned shark. They were both naturals, but the younger “brother” had a nearly predatory grace about him. It didn’t take long to decide Glennon would hold the shield for the both of them, and Higgins would embrace the sword/longknife combination favored by the Cousland family for three generations.

As Higgins blossomed into his role, the outfit’s notoriety rose and the jobs came almost on a weekly basis. The Highever farmboys were sending home five or ten silver a month, and wallowing in guilt for keeping two to themselves.

The work was mundane but respectable. The company was solid and trustworthy. The job that brought in Higgins gave me a reputation for dumb luck, rather than casting any doubt on my abilities. Boomer and Siren were fair, honest, and always paid us before taking their own cut.

It was a great gig.

I fucking hated it.

Something was wrong. Something was _not right_ and I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

 

_Ophelia,_

_I have heard some unbelievable stories about the Landsmeet. You are, officially, fucking insane. By comparison, I’m escorting old women across the street. If you’re trying to make me feel stupid for leaving. Well. Mission accomplished._

_Work here is steady and, like I said, mundane. It’s no different than what I was doing before, with you and Hank and Brue, but it still doesn’t feel right. I keep remembering everyone accusing me of itchy feet, of how I’d made it clear I was ready to run the whole time I was in Denerim. I hadn’t noticed… but now I do. I’m not sure if I’m running **from** something or **towards** it, but I feel so… unsettled._

_Was it ever like this for you? This searching for your place, your meaning?  
Maybe I’m rambling. Maybe I’m an idiot. _

_How’s the family? Tell Felix congratulations on becoming a big brother, it’s a very important job. And I caught Senna’s jab in the last bit – did you know she was writing in the margins? -  so you tell her to take that loose gutter and shove it right up her tight elfy ass._

_Put a note on your return letter to let me know that the postage is paid **before** I open it. Little misfit delivering the mail here is a highwayman. I almost want to keep giving him the money, just in recognition for sheer testicular fortitude. Almost._

_Twitch_

 

It was weeks before I could hear back, of course. More time to run more jobs that were everything I could ask for - running off slavers and killing nuisance wildlife and finding people lost in the woods - and finding no fulfillment whatsoever. I kept one ear to the news in Kirkwall, knowing the lack of a Viscount was a sign of dark times indeed but not knowing why.

There was something big missing, something I was supposed to do, someplace I was supposed to be…

…and I had no fucking clue what it was.

So I stayed put. I worked. I waited. I trained Boomer’s outfit as well – if not better – than Hank and Brue had trained me. And I kept my ear to the ground and waited for whatever storm was coming.

 

_Twitch,_

_I told you so._

_And you're definitely an idiot._

_Ophelia_

_PS Felix is a fantastic big brother to little Padraig. Senna says you're welcome to come back and make an attempt with that gutter any time you like.  
I'll write more when I get a chance - I'm helping Valora take on the red and everything is in uproar._

 

I stayed in limbo another year before I walked headlong into the best kind of trouble.

It was a beautiful day. Late summer, nine-thirty-six. The big, perfect, lazy sorts of white clouds barely marring a brilliant blue sky. I was in the sweet spot between work and sleep, the long hours of afternoon before sunset when I was done with training and left to my own reconnaissance. I generally spent those hours in one of three ways: gaming with Glennon and Higgins, writing to Denerim or West Hill, or sitting in the bar and chatting with one of about a dozen locals.

On a day this perfect, I made the only logical choice.

But when the door swung shut behind me and silence reigned in the tavern, a chill went up my back and I froze to take stock of the situation before going any further.

There was a Qunari in the tavern. He sat in the corner furthest from the bar, shadowed, features indistinct; but ox men were unmistakable. They’d always made me nervous, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. Something about the way they talked set my teeth on edge.

There was a ‘Vint sitting in front of him; some kind of gatekeeper, it seemed. There was a simple handmade sign perched beside the table the ‘Vint had claimed.

_Recruiting for Bull’s Chargers_

There didn’t seem to be a line. That was putting it mildly, actually. There wasn’t anybody within ten feet of the ‘Vint, because that would put them within twenty feet of the hulking ox man sitting in the corner.

More out of curiosity than anything else, I sauntered up to the table. “Tell me about these Chargers.”

The ‘Vint was watching me warily, and after a long moment of sizing one another up I realized he hadn’t been born male. Interesting. Beyond the passing bit, he was pretty standard Tevinter issue: dark hair, dark eyes, deeper skin tone than what you normally saw in blond-hair-blue-eyed Ferelden. He was about my height and weight, but had an air of command about him. This man had seen more than his fair share of shit.

Made me wonder what Tevinter thought about ‘passing.’

“The Chargers are the best mercenary company in Orlais,” he answered, the barest hints of Tevene and Orlesian coloring his flawless Common. “That doesn’t mean we want to fill it with a bunch of damn Orlesians, though. No loyalties to run into conflict with if you bring people in from outside Orlais. Less trouble. So we make trips to Nevarra and the Free Marches to recruit. Heard that Highever was a good place to find quality people. Here we are. The better question is, why do you think the Chargers are interested in you?”

“I don’t,” I answered easily. “I hope the Chargers have no bloody idea who I am. But my boss is going to ask about you and I need to have answers for her. So you’re recruiting here and heading back into Orlais?”

The ‘Vint nodded and I saluted him with a fist to my chest and turned to continue my trip to the bar.

“You’re too clean,” the qunari rumbled from the corner.

All sound in the bar ceased. I stopped mid-step, startled, and turned to face him.

“That’s a new one,” I laughed a reply. “You got something against hygiene?”

“Bracers are polished,” the qunari continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Dwarven armor, seen a lot of use since it was fitted to you, but none of it recent. Been polished four or five times since the last time you did anything meaningful with it. Sword doesn’t match. It’s second or third hand, but it _means_ something. You take care of it like the armor. No dwarves here, so you got it elsewhere. No personal affects visible. Never worn a wedding ring. Sitting in the bar on a day anybody with a girl or a family would be out with them. So something brought you out this way and stranded you.”

He’d read all that off me from twenty feet away. Color me intrigued. I settled in to listen to whatever the hulking stranger had to say.

“You got nothing holding you here. Why bother reporting back to your boss?”

I smiled at him. “I like her work. I like the way she runs her company. I like the way she treats her people. I like what she stands for. She pays more than I need to get by. My roommate is easy to live with. You find a good fit like that, an outfit you can be proud of, you stick with them. I didn’t get to where I was by biting the hand that fed me.”

“You’re a good man, if a bit twitchy,” the qunari rumbled, and I laughed. “I wish you well.”

I sent him a salute to rival the one I’d given his Tevene front man, and finished my walk to the bar.

I halfway expected more people to approach the ‘Vint now that I’d broken the ice, but the qunari in the back of the bar seemed to have scared everybody off with his easy read of me.

They kept drawing my eye as I sat at the bar and had a chat with the man who kept my mug full. There was something about them that pulled on me, like a memory I couldn’t quite grasp. I shook it off and went about my day. I didn’t stay in the tavern long, and went to forget my troubles with Higgins, Glennon, and a half-dozen hands of Wicked Grace.

I woke up the next morning in a cold sweat.

I hadn’t dreamed once that I could remember, not once since my earliest days in Denerim. That I’d ever dreamt at all struck me as too far in the past to worry about.

That night, however; that night I had dreamed.

It was long and vivid and disappeared the instant I awoke, but it left me with an unshakable certainty:

I had to join the Chargers.

I dressed in a hurry and went back to the bar to find them gone. Because of course they were gone, it was barely dawn and the only people in the tap room were the people who’d stayed the night at the inn and were breakfasting before continuing on their way. A couple of quick questions got me directions to where the Chargers were camped, a short distance outside the walls.

I got to the main gate just as it opened and hauled ass around to the tree line south of the village.

There was definitely a camp there.

Maker, there was a lot of them. Two dozen, at least. This wasn’t the sort of company I was used to. This wasn’t a group that stayed in one place and got a reputation in a city.

This was a group that _razed_ a city and then moved on.

The ‘Vint saw me coming and strode out to meet me.

“Recruitment’s closed,” he announced without preamble. “Not enough interest to justify a trial.”

I shook my head. “You’ve got enough interest. I just needed to sleep on it. I’m worth the trip, on my own. You’re going to want to give me a try.”

I kept the desperation out of my voice, out of my mannerisms, but I could feel it pulsating in time with my frantic heartbeat. _Don’t leave without me. Don’t leave without me. Don’t leave without me_.

I couldn’t tell you why it was _so damn important_ but I knew – just knew – that I absolutely had to be with the Chargers when they rolled out of Highever.

It was like my life depended on it.

The ‘Vint was frowning at me, but he nodded slowly. “Chief said you would have been a catch. Let’s go see if he’s willing to give you a swing.”

I gestured for the ‘Vint to lead the way and fell into step behind him, a step to his left. It felt _right_ as few other things had in my life.

The Chief, as the ‘Vint had referred to the qunari, was working to break down his tent when we strode up. “Look who showed back up,” the ‘Vint drawled, causing the qunari to straighten up and turn towards us. I hadn’t gotten a good look at him the day before, in the darkness of the bar. He was big and grey and half-naked, like most qunari were. He was set apart by an angry red weal across his face, disappearing into an eye patch. Something had cost him his eye, and recently.

“Change your mind?” he laughed. “Well, you’re too late. Not enough interest to justify having a trial.”

“I’m enough interest,” I assured him smoothly.

His eyebrows went up, which was jarring over the eyepatch. “Oh, you think so?”

I nodded. “You’d have to write to Denerim for my full history, but ask anybody here in Highever. I trained half of Siren’s company-“

“Boomer’s company,” he corrected me shortly, and I felt my jaw click shut.

“Come on, now,” he laughed. “That’s no way to start out a business deal. I knew ten minutes after meeting them who was in charge there. You going to make it a point of lying to me?”

I met his gaze, barely managing to keep the scowl off my face. “If you expect me to give up secrets that keep my friends alive? Yes. Yes, I am. Maybe this wasn’t the right place for me, if you put such little value on loyalty.”

“Hey, now, I didn’t say that,” he took a step toward me, one hand out. “That hurts, kid. Cuts me real deep.”

I stepped back. “As far as any of you are concerned, Siren leads her outfit. What happens inside her outfit is just that – _inside her outfit_.”

“How much does she pay you for that loyalty?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Loyalty isn’t for sale. She pays for my sword, my arm, and my time. My loyalty goes to whoever _earns_ it.”

He fell silent and watched me for a long time. The camp continued breaking down and packing up around us, but we stood facing one another, taking each other’s measure.

“Alright,” he said after several minutes. “You let me take a swing at you with my axe, and we see if you’re really Charger material.”

“If you’re looking for a friendly sort of fight, we exchange names first,” I countered. “If we do this as strangers, I might kill you, and I’d feel awful bad about it later.”

“Who said anything about a fight?” the qunari laughed. “You stand there and I swing. Just a friendly test of mettle. But you raise a good point. I’m called The Iron Bull. ‘Vint there is my Lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi. Everybody calls him Krem.”

“Chief calls me Krem,” the ‘Vint interrupted. “Everybody else humors him.”

“Fair enough. Everybody calls me Twitch.”

“Fitting. But that’s not your name,” Bull said carefully.

I shrugged. “It is no less valid than your name.”

“Grant that,” he said and turned to grab a _fucking massive_ double-handed axe off the top of the pile of stuff that had come out of his tent. “You ready for this?”

It was a test of mettle, he said.

He _probably_ wasn’t going to cut me in half. I had barged into their attempt to leave, though. So maybe this was payback for inpertinence.

I met his single piercing eye and nodded. “You got any depth perception?”

He shook his head, _no_ , and then drew his axe back. He took a step, planted his foot, and swung the axe _up_ , underhanded, so that if it caught me it would split me in half, ass-to-mouth, like I was firewood.

I leaned back, let it whip past me, and reached out to catch the haft as soon as I was out of immediate danger of the blade. This man was a _beast_ and his swing was more than powerful enough to sweep me off my feet – or chop me in two – and with a quick kick I was airborne.

I swung my feet out and caught the qunari in the chin as I swept by, releasing the haft of his axe as he was staggered off balance. I landed in a heap and rolled out of the way, coming to my feet on the far side of his tent. I stayed in a low crouch, prepared for a second swing of that stupidly large axe.

The Iron Bull had caught his footing almost immediately, but he reached up with one hand to rub his jaw, dazed. “Ow,” he muttered, and then started to laugh. “You ballsy bastard, come here.”

“You put that fucking axe away first,” I countered, although I straightened as I said it. I was taking my first step out of the cover provided by Bull’s half-assembled tent as he chucked his axe to the side.

“Twitch, is it?” he said, putting out a hand. I clasped it, and somehow he had a way of shaking my hand that didn’t make me feel like a child with an adult. I was his equal. Given how big those damn mitts were, that was a minor miracle in and of itself. I merely nodded.

“You were right, Twitch. We’ve got a spot for you here, if you want it.”

I nodded, once, and felt Krem clap a hand to my shoulder.

“Well, damn,” Bull sighed, looking around. “We’ve got to give Twitch time to get his shit in order. Maybe steal a couple more out of Ricker the Red’s outfit. _Chargers!_ ” The last word came out a bellow, but nobody besides me seemed startled. It came with serving under a qunari, I supposed. “Drop camp, we’re staying another day or two.”

There were as many grumbles as laughs, and they set about undoing all their work of the morning.

“I’ll write up your contract,” Bull rumbled as he turned around and started setting his own tent to rights. “You go get your business in order. We’ll be ready to go before you are, I’m sure.”

I shook Krem’s hand on the way out of camp, and walked back to Highever at a much slower rate than I had left it that morning. Siren was waiting for me in front of the guardhouse, steaming mug of tea in hand.

“You’re up early,” she said, taking a sip of tea and then laughing. “Or are you out late?”

“Up early,” I answered with a grin. “Look, I’m sorry but I-“

“Joined that qunari merc?” she finished with a raised eyebrow.

I nodded. “I don’t know why. I had a dream last night and woke up a mess and just… I had to join up. It was like my life depended on it.”

“How do you feel now that you have?”

I sighed. “Relieved. Contented. Like when you’re running for the gate before it closes at dusk and you manage to dart through right before it slams shut.”

She was nodding. “It wasn’t that strong for me, but… I have to admit I’ve been considering it, too.”

“He knows,” I said, and she shot me a sharp look. “About our leadership, I mean. Called me a liar, even.”

She reached up and rubbed her chin with the hand that wasn’t holding her teacup. “Did he, now. Maker, I wonder if he’s Ben’Hassrath. He might lead to some interesting places.”

“Like Orlais,” I snorted, and sat down beside her.

“Always did like killing Orlesians,” she quipped, and we both laughed. “Besides, nobody’s come after Boomer in ages. Feels like the time to move on.”

“Well, they’re sticking around so I can get my shit in order,” I told her, intentionally skipping over the bit about poaching more sword arms from our outfit. “So if you want to see if they’ll take you, the time is now.”

“See if _they_ will take _me_?” she echoed. “Fuck if they won’t.”

She pushed her half-full mug into my hands and stormed off down the road. I tipped the cup back, finished her tea, and then went inside to meet with Boomer.

Boomer was disappointed but resigned. He made some kind of philosophical statement about the river that is men’s lives, and my need to continue downstream, having eddied long enough. I told him he was a damn windbag and he’d never get laid if he kept that bullshit up.

I left the room with his booming laughter at my heels, and it was the way I would always remember him.

Alan was less esoteric about his reply. “Fucking finally, I’ll get my own room.”

“May the next three recruits we bring in be strangers to soap,” I replied, and we exchanged good-natured insults the entire time I packed my things.

I had more to carry with me on the way out of Highever than I had brought along from Denerim. There were more clothes, spare bits and pieces of things to mend my clothes or armor with, and the shield with Highever’s heraldry on it. There was also a growing stack of letters from Denerim, particularly from Opie.

Hank was a shitty correspondant, but Ophelia wrote back religiously, returning every letter I sent her. I had procured a substantial book of flattered pages, strapped between two thin cards of wood with a long thin band of leather. I tucked my writing instruments into a separate pouch and hung it from my belt, not wanting the ink to spill and ruin my letters from Ophelia. I’d need a hard-sided case to keep it in, if I was going to spend a lot of time on the road.

I would need to write her, and let her know I was leaving Highever.

I dug through my money and was surprised to find I had never actually dipped into the silver I’d inherited from Natalia. My work with Boomer had been enough – and my expenditures sufficiently low – to keep me in the black all this time. I had converted it to gold for safe keeping, so the coins took up little space. They slid easily into the belt Gorim had sold me for that purpose, and I was surprised to find I’d made almost another whole gold while working in Highever. I tucked those silver in with the gold, carefully separated to keep them from announcing their presence with a telltale tinkle, and hefted my worldly possessions in a single pack onto my back, my shield over one shoulder, and my sword dangling comfortably from my waist.

“Tell me the rumor isn’t true, Twitch,” Higgins said as soon as I stepped into the hallway. He was clearly lying in wait for me. “Tell me you didn’t sign up with that band that is camped outside.”

I shrugged. “You want me to lie? I can lie. I’ve decided to sell everything and become a Bard. I’m bound for the next ship to Par Vollen, I hear they have the best songs in Seheron.”

“You asshole,” Higgins laughed. “You’re really leaving?”

“I’m really leaving,” I replied. “I’ve been here awhile, it’s time to move on. You won’t be in Highever forever, either. You’re too big for this town. You and Glennon both are.”

He shook his head, but I stopped him with my free right hand on his shoulder.

“Listen. You’re _not_ going to stay here forever. When you decide to leave, pick your destination carefully. Denerim’s good. Talk about me in the Chantry or the alienage and you’ll find work quick. The south is still garbage, rebuilding after the Blight. The Arl of Redcliffe has everything down there on lockdown, and he doesn’t have time or patience for hired swords. Stay out of Kirkwall, the place is a shithole.”

Higgins started laughing, but the next words out of my mouth startled us both. “For the love of all that’s holy, stay out of the Frostback mountains.”

“What?” he asked, dazed. “Why?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I just… know things, sometimes. I knew Glennon was a good catch, knew you were at least as good as him the first time I saw you. I know I need to join the Chargers. And I know there’s something awful brewing in the Frostbacks. Just stay out of them entirely.”

“Don’t you have to cut right through to get to Orlais?” he asked, laughing again. “Are you telling me to go to Denerim and nowhere else?”

“No! I mean, yes,” and we both laughed. “Seriously, though. Take ship out of here, it’s probably safer. The rest of the ‘Marches aren’t terrible. I hear neat things out of Nevarra from time to time. And Orlais probably isn’t terrible. Just don’t go to Kirkwall, and don’t move to the Frostbacks.”

“That should be easy to manage,” Glennon said from where he’d been out of sight in a doorway, a few paces down the hall. “Kirkwall’s a shithole, and the only places worth visiting in the Frostbacks are Orzammar, which won’t let us in, and Haven, which isn’t our style.”

I shook my head. “Haven gives me the chills just thinking about it. Stay out of Haven.”

They both shrugged. “Easy enough.”

I clapped Higgins on the shoulder, reached over to clasp Glennon’s hand, and then worked my way through the guardhouse, saying goodbye to everyone on my way to the door.

I sat in the courtyard and wrote my last letters from Highever. My message to Hank was shorter than normal, bearing an explanation of my change of employers and a relative uncertainty of where I was going, aside from Orlais. Siren stalked by as I was finishing up, bearing a fat lip, a bloodied collar, and a grin of triumph. I added a post script to Hank’s letter: _Siren’s apparently going with me. One less worry_.

He would get any other news he wanted from Ophelia.

 

_Opie,_

_Merc band came into town yesterday. They’re led by a Qunari – Siren wonders if he isn’t Ben’Hassrath – and I talked to his Lieutenant in the bar. I thought them a passing novelty. But then… it was the weirdest thing. I never dream – I mean,_ never _dream – but last night I did. I don’t remember anything about it, but I woke up absolutely certain I had to join the Chargers._

_I wandered down to their camp today as they were packing up to leave, met with their leader, and passed his entrance exam. Get this: he made me let him take a swing at me with a axe too big for Brue to lift. I grabbed the haft on the way by and used its momentum to kick him in the face. He laughed and is writing me up a contract._

_The important thing to take from this is that I’m leaving Highever. I don’t know yet if there’s going to be a way to receive letters, but I’ll write you again once I have more information. Sit on whatever news you might have for now._

_Siren just walked by with a pack on her back, blood on her collar, and Boomer’s complaints at her heels, so it’s a safe bet she’s coming along, too._

_I’m leaving with so much more than I showed up here with. I’ve probably got half a stone in paper from you and (to a lesser degree) Hank. He was a real good writer at first, but now I’m lucky if I get three words back for every three sentences I send. Kick him for me, would ya?_

_Two of the guys in Boomer’s outfit – names Glennon and Higgins – might end up in Denerim some day. It’s as likely as not. Just keep the names handy. If two Highever boys who look enough alike to be brothers come wandering through the Chantry or the alienage dropping my name, it’s because I sent them. They’re too big for this town, they’ll end up leaving before long._

_I’ve got my shit in order, though, so I’m paying off the courier and then moving out to Charger camp. I will write again soon. I’ll have to – since I won’t hear from you again until I tell you how to reach me._

_Give my best to the family._

_Twitch_


	12. The New Cast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitch gives us a summary of the Bull's Chargers as he sees it, and concludes this section of the story.

The Chargers packed up and left Highever the next morning. In all, they’d recruited three new members in their stay: myself, Siren, and a quiet sort of elf I knew as Waylen but who was now asking to be called Bridger.

The only person with a real first and last name in the whole damn outfit was Krem.

“How come you don’t have a nickname?” I asked him on our third day on the road.

Krem shrugged. “Don’t want one.”

Was he the only one not running from something? Or was he the only one who didn’t care? Or maybe there were some other special circumstances? There was too much in that simple statement to pick apart, so I left it be.

Krem seemed to appreciate that philosophy; I generally just let things be. Later that night, as we were splitting up into individual tents – we didn’t have set roommates, and made it a point to crash with different people every time we camped, so the entire group was more cohesive – he ducked into the tent I’d just finished raising and threw his gear into one corner. He set about helping me set guidons and stakes, and by the time we finished, Rocky and Hatch had thrown their gear in with ours and brought us dinner along with random stumps and rocks to sit on.

“Tell me about you,” Krem said, settling on a rock when the immediate work was done. We were climbing in altitude every day, although not quite in the mountains yet; the air was getting downright _cold_ at night, so the fire Rocky was setting was pretty critical. Hatch was off collecting wood, so I sat beside Krem on a punky bit of stump.

“Worked in Denerim after the Blight,” I told him with a shrug. “Met some good people. Still keep in contact with them, when I can. My employer died – great old lady, but she’d outlived her last grandson by three years – and I felt that was a natural time to leave town. Worked my way to West Hill, heard the opportunities were better in Highever, and there we are.”

“What about before the Blight?” Krem asked.

I looked at him flatly until he looked away. “I was somebody else, before the Blight,” I answered at last. It was the only answer I had to offer him, the only thing that felt true.

_Before the Blight_ was something I never thought about. I never even thought about why.

That was good enough for Krem, though. It might not be for the Chief – I got the distinct impression he was doing pretty extensive background checks on all of us – but for everybody else there was an underlying assumption that everybody lived through something that made them cut ties and become mercenaries. Stories were something to be offered up, not inquired after.

Not that there was ever a deficit in stories. As big as it was, there was some pretty substantial turnover in the Chargers. People hired on, left for various reasons, and occasionally we had casualties in battle. There ended up being a few tangible levels of Charger membership.

At the top – or maybe the middle – you had the Iron Bull. Chief, to pretty much everybody.

Talking to Krem, or getting an order from Krem, was pretty much the same as hearing it from the Chief. Whenever the Bull wasn’t around, Krem was the boss without discussion or specification.

Then you had the core group of Chargers – the people who were trusted with leading squads or undertaking missions independently – who gravitated to the center of the company and stuck. They were the faces you got used to, the ones that years of spilling blood with built a relationship that went far past the job.

Probably first among these was Stitches. He was the doctor, the barber, the tailor, the herbalist, assistant armorer, and all-around cynical bastard. He’d fought in the Bannorn during the Blight and could hold his own with a sword, but in the end it was what he could do with a needle and razor that made him invaluable to the company. It was Stitches who put Bull’s face back together, and made the eyepatch that made his visage tolerable in society.

He also didn’t talk to any of us for three solid weeks when he had to sew feathers into our clothing for a job.

Rocky was a lucky catch. When he fled Orzammar (after blowing up the shaperate, although I don’t know how true that story was) he was immediately the most sought-after dwarf in Orlais. The dwarves keep their secrets close and their sappers closer, and the only people who can blow up shit better or faster are the Qunari with their gaatlok. Rocky said his first love was the sound rock makes as it skitters on the ground post-explosion, and we gave him as many chances to reunite with that love as we could manage. There was no wall built that Rocky couldn’t bring down, in theory at least. He was also the undisputed king at finding, disarming, and crafting traps. He took a sick sort of enjoyment out of turning traps around on their original creators when he found him; he was the kind of man you were always glad was on your side.

Rocky’s sappers were a different animal altogether. They didn’t really talk to anybody outside their clique, not like Rocky did. They were a static entity – the same five guys, all male, always together – but I couldn’t tell you a one of their names. They all talked to Bull, though, because to do otherwise was to get kicked out. Literally. I watched the Chief drop-kick a guy from Starkhaven into a ravine when he got belligerent one night. We could talk shit on one another, but only within reason… there was no room for a bigot within the Chargers.

Grim was a treasure. He was an extension of Krem, more or less, but hardly got handed any responsibility because everybody respected his choice not to talk. It spoke to me in a way I couldn’t really define, his silence; I respected him for it although I couldn’t explain why. When we were on missions requiring stealth, though, he was a born leader. He had a way with hand gestures and miming his intention that was easy for everyone to grasp. He had a way of laughing that was silent; if you looked up at him during a battle he almost always wore this face-splitting smile.

Siren started out trying to distance herself from me inside the company. It was a solid plan, on paper. We didn’t want to come across like the sappers did, that’s for damn sure. After a few weeks, though, we ended up fighting alongside each other as often as not. There’s a lot to be said for shared experience, and we had worked together long enough that it was stupid to throw that away for the sake of appearances. In the end, it made us both more valuable. It was good to have a friendly face, as well.

And then you had Dalish. She was like Ophelia with Vallaslin and a bow instead of a dagger. She was _clearly a mage_ but she had her staff all decked out to look like this ornate elvhen longbow, complete with “targeting crystal” on top. No matter how much we insisted we did not give a single solitary shit about her magic, she was adamant about not being an apostate. Her backstory was a dead giveaway. She actually shrugged one afternoon and said, “there were too many of us.” She insisted she meant hunters, and that they were too efficient for their little clan and spent more time idle than out chasing game… but none of us were stupid. We all got to keep our own secrets, though, so we humored hers. If anything, calling Dalish an archer was the outward expression of the unspoken rule that we let everyone’s histories be just that: history.

Skinner was a tough nut to crack. She reminded me of Senna, honestly. She hit the same sort of trouble in the alienage and solved it much the same way – by putting blades in humans. Senna had her family to help her dodge trouble, and then got the added benefit of friends in high places when Solona rolled in with the Blight. Skinner, though, had to cut and run or have her ears mounted on a noble’s wall as a trophy. She saw me as just another _shem_ until she heard Siren harass me about Ophelia one afternoon. After that, I was still a shem… just one of the shems she wanted to kill the least.

 

 

_Opie,_

_The Iron Bull’s got a contact in Val Chevin who handles his personal mail. Anything being sent to the Chargers can be routed through there and it will get to wherever we are pretty quickly. The Chief gets pretty regular correspondence, so the system already has all the kinks worked out. Make sure you date your next letter to me, so we can figure out how long the delivery takes._

_That said,_

_Hello! We’re nowhere near Val Chevin. I’m actually not supposed to say exactly where we are at the minute, because the Boss is negotiating a job and it sounds like it’s underhanded and ridiculous. You’ll love it, if I ever get clearance to tell you._

_I need permission to give Jenny’s name to the Chief. I was explaining to him how Jennies work, and he was fascinated but the total lack of organization. Also, I don’t know what her name is… you said somebody else was taking it on, but I burned that letter. I can’t guarantee my stuff isn’t being rifled through anymore. I doubt it is… but I can’t **guarantee** it. You’re brilliant and I’m sure you’re picking up what I’m putting down._

_There’s a member of the company – she says her name is Skinner – who reminds me so much of Senna I almost want to ask if they’re related. She looks about as different from Senna as two elves can, and Senna had you so she didn’t get bitter, but still… so similar. Which is my way of telling you that your cousin and you would get along great here, if you ever decided to leave Denerim._

_Twitch_

 

 

It took three weeks, four days, and maybe four hours from the time I handed the courier the letter until I heard back from Ophelia.  
Not that I was counting.

 

 

_Twitch,_

_The person I assume you’re referring to is being called Sorisa. I think it’s a stupid name, but it’s what she wants, and we all know how that goes. This is why people don’t get to pick their own names. Without fail they’ll pick stupid shit, like The Iron Bull or Siren._

_Speaking of… remind her she still owes me for that tip about the Altus. She’ll know what you’re talking about._

_Kyler is knocked up. Again. I think they’re trying to single-handedly repopulate the alienage. Maker knows none of the rest of us intend to add any elves to the world. She swears she’ll stop once she gets a daughter, but I think that just dooms them to having a half-dozen sons. Say that to Gil and he gets this stupid grin on his face. Creep._

_I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you did tell me to sit on what I had, so it’s all got to come out at once. ~~Brue’s wife Brue lost~~ Dyana, Brue’s wife, didn’t survive her last childbirth. The baby was sickly and we didn’t find her a ~~healer~~ wet nurse in time. I can’t take any more into my house, and Dyana didn’t have any family local, so we’re all doing what we can to pitch in. Sister Nesiara, I’m sure you remember her, helps watch his two little ones when Brue’s got work. Brue’s got a lot of work all of a sudden. When Huck and Willem get older, I’m sure Brue will spend more time with his boys, but right now what he needs is money and a distraction._

_Maker, what else. Sera’s gone. Just up and bailed one day. Heard a rumor that she was headed your direction, but can’t validate that yet. If you see her, punch her in the tit for me._

_Finn is absolutely shacking up with ol’ Goldie. Shianni told me. Fucking glorious._

_Solona stopped answering letters. It’s got me concerned. Amaranthine has been quiet for years, and everything I’d heard says the Wardens are still up at Vigil’s Keep. It’s possible she’s gone back to Soldier’s Peak and is getting into trouble again and not answering her mail (see also: the entire year she fought the Blight) but something doesn’t sit right with me. Do you think she’s okay? You would have told me if she wasn’t, right? On the other hand, the news out of Kirkwall is getting scary. That seems like the sort of fight she would stick herself in, politics be damned._

_Andraste’s asshole, this is already too long. Going to cost me a silver to post, most likely. I’ll send more when I can. Saving my coins for Brue, after all._

_Ophelia_

_P.S. I’m not leaving Denerim, you glorious piece of shit._

 

 

I hadn’t ever sent money to someone before, but I’d seen Glennon and Higgins do it for long enough that I knew how it could be managed. After getting Ophelia’s letter, I sent five silver a month to Brue and his sons. He complained about never being able to repay me after the third month,  so I sent ten in the next letter. I couldn’t quite manage ten silver every month, but instead I threw in extra coins every time he complained. It became code for when he was hurting and needed extra help, and I was glad to be useful.

Something about his second son being named _Willem_ made me tear up a bit, but I figured it was just happiness for my friend. I decided I would need to take some time at some point and go back to Denerim for a visit. Maybe when the kids were older, and could hear the shadier stories about their dad.

In the meantime, the Chargers had money to make. We made our way deep into the heart of Orlais, following Bull’s nearly flawless eye for jobs. I say _nearly_ because there was the feather incident. And the mine banditry. And the “giant charm” bullshit. Okay, so there was an awful lot of fuckery. The point is, where Bull led, we followed. And where Bull made a deal, we all got paid: one way, or the other.

For me, at least, it stayed that way for almost four amazing years, until everything came crashing down one bitter spring morning in 9:40 Dragon.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to abandon the narrative for a bit and do a series of one-shots that are some of the jobs the Chargers did over the years. Some of them are the ones from the game, and some of them are of my own creation.  
> The plan is to jump back into the narrative with the alluded-to 9.40 Dragon spring morning, and then follow it along into the Inquisition years. At that point there will be war table missions tucked in with the narrative, although I haven't quite decided on a structure for that section of the story yet.  
> I've covered five years in only 12 chapters, so I'm pretty pleased with the way this is shaping up thus far.


	13. Sometimes Always Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotless Charger Funtimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a new thing for me.  
> I wrote this chapter today, since my Muse has been interested in other things and I couldn't bring her back around to Will's story. A change of venue and some serious concentration brought her attention to the Chargers, and this (finally) got written.  
> That said, I've never written a chapter during the day and posted it that night. Usually I'm writing 30-40K words ahead of where I'm posting and I edit three times (at least) for grammar and spelling and continuity before anybody else ever sees it.  
> So! Adventure time, I suppose.  
> If you see a glaring error let me know so I can fix it. <3

I had always had work. Natalia kept me busy in between jobs in Denerim, and Boomer had done – pardon the pun – booming business in Highever.

But the Chargers didn’t just have work.

The Chargers didn’t just stay busy.

The Chargers were in ridiculously high demand.

There were bidding wars for the Chargers.

The Iron Bull preferred jobs that were special, and it was pretty plain to anybody paying attention that our Chief was taking jobs that would give him information to fill up those letters he was sending to Par Vollen every ten days like clockwork. In the absence of a job that was odd or entertaining, he opted for interesting or troublesome employers. Failing that, we went to the highest bidder.

We took a couple simple smash-and-grabs when we first entered Orlais – rescuing a dubiously “kidnapped” noblewoman one time and a stolen family heirloom the other – and then dedicated ourselves to the ill-fated “Bird Job” that Stitches made us all swear not to talk about again. My fourth job with the Chargers, though, was something special.

“Idiot says he has a magical artifact that will charm giants,” the Chief said, in announcing the job we’d been contracted for. “We’re going to find him a giant to charm. Easy enough.”

“You’re taking us giant-baiting?” I laughed, a little disbelievingly. “What happens when the charm doesn’t work?”

The Chief shrugged. “Not our problem.”

“What the fuck does he want a giant for?” Bridger demanded.

The Iron Bull laughed, a sound more like rocks falling than any sound of amusement. “A pageant.”

“Fucking Orlesians,” Siren sighed. “Every last one of them. Pompous pricks.”

“I can drink to that,” Skinner agreed.

The Emerald Graves region of the Dales was crawling with giants, but we only wanted one. Not thirty. We sent scouts – led by Skinner and Dalish, for obvious reasons – along the edge of the forest, where it opened up into the so-called Exalted Plains. Dalish said there were names for that stretch of land that didn’t involve genocide, but none of us were dumb enough to talk politics in camp; it was better to just not ask, and nod at whatever she said.

When we had our target – single giant, presumably an adolescent male, living alone in a deep-set cave some distance east of Fort Revasan – the man with the charm rode out to meet us.

“Comte Vanchess,” the Chief said, striding out to meet the noble and his delegation. He had three men riding with him; one seemed like a butler and the other two were men-at-arms. They had four pack animals, though, and I was pretty sure it was all supplies for the Comte’s comfort on the road. I’d officially spent too much time with the Jennies. As soon as I saw this sack of shit, I was spinning ways to screw with him.

“The Iron Bull,” the Comte replied expansively. “You cannot imagine how pleased I am to be so close to our goal. And so quickly!” 

They bantered back and forth a moment – the Chief was a world-class schmoozer when you got right down to it – and then quickly agreed that the Comte and his men would stay outside of the cave. The Chargers would go in and draw the giant out. The Comte had half our payment at the ready and the other half at a location nearby; the Chargers would not be needed once the giant was successfully charmed, and the Chief had insisted the Chargers had another job lined up and would not travel for payment.

“Here’s how this goes down,” Bull said to us a short while later, once the Comte and his men had gone off to set up the Comte’s rather extravagant tent. “Rocky takes his sappers in at full dark and establishes bolt-holes in case shit goes wrong. Our fastest runners – that’s most of the elves, Twitch and Krem – go in light but armed. If he reaches for you, make him bleed. On the off chance this charm shit works, I don’t want to haggle with Vanchess about missing fingers. Everybody else is on crawler duty. They don’t look to be particularly nasty – no poisonous ones, at least – but there are giant spiders in the cave and they’ll spin webs as fast as we cut them down.”

“What if the charm doesn’t work?” I asked.

The Chief grinned at me. “Then we have a giant to kill.”

“You got a plan for that?” Krem prompted.

“I got a plan for everything.”

“Great.”

Rocky’s sappers were a bunch of sneaky fuckers, and they disappeared into the cave without a backwards glance that evening. The runners, as we were called, got the night off of watch to be as rested as possible.

As if a man could sleep knowing a giant was going to be chasing him the next morning.

Luckily for me, I don’t dream. That means I don’t have nightmares, either. Bull passed around a flask of the qunari poison he called Maraas-lok, and with the promise that it would _put some chest on your chest_ I took a long pull and went right the fuck to sleep.

We were up at dawn. There’d been no word from Rocky – but no news was good news where the sappers were concerned. If there’d been screams and explosions in the night, there’d be worries. At least one of those crazy dwarves would rather be blown up than eaten, so if they’d been discovered they would have brought the roof of the cavern down. Silence was a good sign.

“Ain’t no way you’re faster than me,” Siren said with a huff as Krem and I were setting up our armor. If there was a fight with a giant at the end of this mess, we’d want to be able to get protection as quickly as possible. We had each picked out a tree that we would leave our gear hidden next to, with the idea that once we were out of the cave we’d head straight for our tree and hide while we dressed.

“No?” I laughed. “You want a foot race at the end of this?”

“Did you not see him haul ass across that roof in Val Chevin?” Krem laughed. “I was sure he’d get enough speed to actually fly.”

Stitches harumphed from somewhere nearby and we all chuckled silently. Something about the healer’s continued bitterness over hand-stitching a dozen suits of feathers was endlessly amusing to everybody else.

“Us city boys are light on our feet,” Krem told Siren. I nodded sagely. “You get used to running from the authorities.”

“Being told to either keep up with an elf or take responsibility for all the bullshit we just pulled is a pretty good motivator to pick up the pace,” I added, and Krem laughed.

“I forgot the Denerim group was about half elf,” Siren mused to herself. “They say Natalia was elf-blooded. Did you ever hear that?”

I shook my head. “Makes sense if she was.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Skinner asked, stepping into our conversation as she finished her own preparations.

The three of us humans glanced at each other and then shrugged. I shook my head as I answered. “No. Why should it? Old Nattie was a damn genius, and Opie was a force of nature. Tack on Senna and Valora? Shit got done. I don’t care what you look like, if you got my back and the job gets done.”

“I mean, look at the Chief,” Krem said, and the qunari in question looked up at us from across the camp as if summoned. “Pillowy man-bosoms, ugly ass mug, horrible taste in pants. But he gets shit done.”

“You watch that lip,” Bull’s booming reminder called from across the clearing.

With a laugh, Siren stalked off to the spider group while the rest of us joined our team at the front of the cave. Bridger and Dalish were waiting for us there, along with Shadow, Whisper, and Squirrel. Skinner trotted up a moment later with Dervish and then I led the way into the cave.

“Why are you point?” Dervish asked as the daylight faded around us.

“Krem’s too important, and you all are too pretty,” I answered.

Whisper snickered and then we let silence reign.

Once the light from the mouth of the cave disappeared behind us, we stopped for a bit to let our eyes adjust. Rocky had clearly been busy. There were small piles of a glowing substance the dwarves use as trail markers underground in what looked to be random spots. Krem pointed to one that was a vague sort of arrow, and we realized they would point us to the way out. Going the opposite direction of the arrow would take us to the giant’s lair.

Beautiful.

The piles that looked rather like slapdash sorts of X’s were places they’d cut away spider webs – and thus places to expect the spiders to re-attach their webs in the very near future. The piles that bore no shape whatsoever were indicators of bolt-holes; narrow corridors shooting off the main tunnel that the giant couldn’t fit into. Granted, they were fucking full of fucking spiders. But if it’s a choice between _fight off spiders_ or _get eaten by a giant_ , I’ll take my chances with the spiders.

“Fucking spiders,” Krem breathed. It was the first sound any of us had made in awhile, with leather-soled shoes muffling our steps and no metal armor to jingle and give us away. Dalish poked him in the ribs and we kept going.

It was easily half an hour from the time we left the daylight until we finally crept into the giant’s lair. The darkness and need for stealth combined with the noting of dwarven trail markers (and nudges and pointing until everyone had acknowledged each marking) made us travel at a snail’s pace. It would only take a few minutes to run back to the entrance… but it would probably feel like the longest run of our lives.

The giant was awake, if just barely. I peeked around the last of the tunnel wall to see him stretching and scratching as he sat up slowly from the floor. Krem and I, as one, reached down and grabbed fist-sized rocks; big enough to be noticed, small enough to throw for distance.

“Start running,” Krem said in a rough whisper as we both stepped back with our right feet and drew back to throw, in sync. “Swords out, cut the webs, peel off if you get slowed.” And with matching grunts, we lobbed our rocks at the giant.

He came to his feet with a roar.

“Eat it, fuckerface!” I shouted, as Krem called out, “Come on, ugly!”

I could hear Squirrel’s giggle disappear up the tunnel behind us, and the urge to laugh was overwhelming for a moment.

This was stupid.

Suicidal, even.

“Run, you stupid bastard!” Krem ordered, some ten paces up the tunnel already.

The giant roared – reaching for me, _shit piss fuck this bastard is **fast**_ – and I turned heel and ran.

By the time I remembered to breathe I had caught up to Krem, who managed a batshit-crazy grin over his shoulder at me. I slowed down to fall into stride beside him, and the two of us tore ass out of the tunnel.

Rock was being torn up behind us as the giant raged in our wake. It wasn’t quite big enough for him to stand fully upright in – likely an intentional choice to defend against older, larger giants – and he couldn’t quite bring his full speed to bear. Which was good, because we weren’t gaining any ground on him. 

The first curses started ahead of us, as Dervish and Skinner hit spider webs.

I could hear steel striking stone, and then a brief flare of sparks was all the warning we got to avert our eyes before a massive web structure went up in flames. I put my hands around my face to make blinders and tucked my head down in a vain attempt to preserve my dark vision.

Luckily, it blinded the giant, too. He paused for a moment, still roaring, and batted the fires out before resuming his now-berserk quest to smash us into jam.

We passed a bolthole containing a furiously swearing Squirrel, three bleeding spiders, and a madly cackling sapper.

As the giant came even with the crevice, he slowed his pace to attempt to reach inside. He was greeted with an explosion of purple flame and spider leg shrapnel. The giant flinched back and stumbled a step before charging back up the tunnel after us. Squirrel’s voice changed from swearing at the spiders to soundly cursing the sapper, with an echoing, “What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucked up fucking fuck?”

Krem’s shoulders hunched with laughter again as Dervish sliced through a spiderweb ahead of us and dove into a bolthole as we ran by. Something about too many legs and a squeak followed by a muffled explosion informed us of the location of another sapper.

Suddenly the spider webs were gone. The literal light at the end of the tunnel appeared in front of us and we redoubled our efforts at escape. The crawler crew must have only gotten the front half of the tunnel cleared, but it was that part that we needed, as everyone started to tire.

We practically erupted out of the tunnel, the giant nearly at our heels as the gradual expanding of the ceiling gave him run to straighten and increase speed. Comte Vanchess was standing in the middle of the small clearing in front of the cave, weird amulet-looking-thing in uplifted hands, chanting nonsense.

Krem and I split, darting in opposite directions to either side of the Comte.

The giant slowed, staring at the noble in disbelief.

“Ha!” Vanchess crowed. “You must obey me!”

The giant tilted his head to the side, frowning at the Comte. He swept an arm down, scooped the man off his feet, and casually bit him in two.

“My lord!” Vanchess’ butler screamed, before dropping in a dead faint.

“You owe me ten silver,” one of the men-at-arms quipped to the other as they both drew swords.

“Yeah, yeah,” the second sighed.

“Chargers!” Bull’s call-to-arms thundered through the woods. I ran straight for my tree and started pulling on armor as the rest of the company poured out of the forest and fell upon the giant.

It was a long fight. I was geared up and in the middle of it just as the giant gave up first blood.

Bridger got swept up and thrown into the canopy of a tree.

Squirrel, true to her name, fell out of a tree onto the giant’s back and got a dagger into one of his eyes before leaping onto another branch and pulling out her bow.

Grim got the hit that ended the battle, really, when he managed to take off a kneecap with his axe. The giant fell to his hands and knees, howling, and we swarmed him. The Chief got his axe in between two vertebrae in the giant’s neck and it collapsed in a heap.

“What do we do with the corpse of a giant?” Bridger asked after Squirrel helped him out of the tree.

“Can they rise as undead?” Krem asked the Chief.

We all went still at the thought.

“Burn him,” Bull ordered, and we set about building a pyre with alacrity.

The butler was slapped awake, set on a horse, and left with one of the men-at-arms to take the Comte’s belongings back to his family. The other man stayed with us, ostensibly because he knew where the other half of our payment was stashed. Once the other two rode away, he asked Bull to stay on. By the time he and Krem rode back in with the promised payment, we’d rejected his name of “Wilmer” and decided he would be called “Wilder” instead. He accepted it with laughing good grace.

There were only minor injuries, somehow, and everyone who hadn’t already been in the giant’s cave was sent in to kill spiders and search for loot. He was pretty young, as giants go, so his ill-gotten gains were fairly minimal. His cave, though, was adjacent to an older ruin of Tevinter design, and we pulled a handsome amount of gold out of the first two rooms before having Rocky’s sappers bring the ceiling down on the cave entrance.

As the dust cleared, Krem shuddered delicately and directed a sour look at me. “Spiders. It’s always spiders.”

“You don’t like spiders, Krem de’la Crème?” the Chief laughed. The Lieutenant flinched, and it was as good a confirmation as any of us needed. “We’ll have to break you of that!”

*

We should have guessed, given the continuous ribbing Krem got about spiders, that the Chief would be looking eagerly to sign us up for some shitty arachnid hunt. He found just the thing, late that fall.

“Something something something _Pentaghast_ something something one hundred and seventh in line to the throne _Asshole_ noticed spiders in the basement of his winter estate just outside Halamshiral,” the Chief said gleefully. “And what do you think he did about it?”

“Lit the place on fire, I hope,” Krem answered dryly.

“He did not do a damn thing,” the Iron Bull countered. “Not one. Locked the door and left. Gave them the whole summer to spew out eggs. Sent his steward down to open the place up for the season and wouldn’t you know it, literally crawling with spiders.”

“You’re taking far too much enjoyment out of this, Chief.” Krem sighed.

“So, what,” Siren chimed in. “We’re just going to kill spiders in an estate?”

“Yep.”

“Is he paying particularly well?” Rocky asked.

“Nope.”

“Are you doing this just to be a dickhole to Krem?” I asked.

“You know it. I keep warning him, the Qun comes down hard on backtalk.”


	14. Spawn Camping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiders are to Krem what Demons are to Bull and what Darkspawn are to Twitch.  
> Also, what year is this? Right, right. Moving the story right along...

“I know the rule about backtalk,” I said to the Chief, working to phrase my thoughts carefully.

“But…?” he prompted, the eyebrow over the patch quirking upward.

“This is the fifteenth cave we’ve gone into trying to find this dumbass book. When do we throw in the towel?”

“When we’re out of caves,” he answered with a shrug, turning back to his map.

“They’re the fucking Frostback fucking mountains!” I protested. Loudly. “They’re fucking full of fucking caves!”

The three other people in the tent – Krem, Grim, and the Chief – all went still. I ground my teeth as I fought the urge to fidget as they all slowly turned to look at me.

“What are you afraid of finding in these caves?” Krem asked when the Iron Bull made no attempt to talk.

“Darkspawn,” I answered before I could think better. “We go too deep, we’ll hit darkspawn.”

“Bah,” Bull started to say, but he was interrupted.

“How bad was Denerim?” Grim asked. His voice was strangely high-pitched, like the warble of a gloomy songbird. It wasn’t the first noise I’d heard out of him, but definitely the first four-word chain.

“The fires burned for weeks,” I admitted.

Bull rested his chin in his hand, associated elbow propped upon the makeshift map table. I tried not to feel bad, tried not to feel _anything_ but it was all I could do not to wallow in abject shame.

The worst bit was, I had no idea why.

“You ever kill a darkspawn?” Bull asked at last.

I shook my head, _no_.

“How long were you in Denerim?”

I shrugged. “I don’t… I don’t really remember. Everything before… before the parade. Alistair and Solona and the archdemon on a wagon…. Everything before that is just... it’s gone. Dark.”

“Walk me backwards from the parade,” Bull encouraged. It sounded for all the world like a mild suggestion, but there was an intensity to his gaze and his posture that made me uneasy.

“I was looking for the people,” I answered, having no reason to lie to the Chief. “There were no people, there had to be people somewhere. Heard the cheering, and followed it. Started off… on streets I didn’t know. Signs are a blur. No landmarks. I was in… an alley?”

“What were you doing in the alley?”

“Hiding,” I blurted out. It felt true but not, like I was missing out on part of the statement.

_You forgot this. You need to forget this. Forget it._

“I think I… I feel like I forgot it all on purpose,” I concluded. I shrugged again. “It’s like Twitch didn’t exist before that alley.”

“What was your name before?” Bull asked, all gentleness gone from his tone.

I met his eye and slowly shook my head. “I don’t know. Whoever he was… I’m not him anymore.”

Bull matched my gaze for awhile longer and then nodded. “Alright. I hear you took up arms at the chantry and trained like mad for weeks before anybody could coax any words out of you. Rumor even has it you got that sword from a Qunari.”

“Sten of the Beresaad,” I answered, although that memory was faint. “He travelled with the Wardens. I met Alistair that day. I met Solona Amell later, through her Friends.”

“Friends,” Bull grunted, turning back to his maps. “That shit makes no sense.”

“I suspect that’s rather the point, Chief,” Krem chided.

The Iron Bull sighed. “Likely.” He glanced over his shoulder and jerked his chin to indicate I was to join him at the maps. “We’ll work you up to fighting darkspawn underground, Twitch,” he said. “Only way to fight that fear is to face it. We’ll limit you to caves that don’t show sign of ‘spawn, for now. Once we’ve fought a few on the surface – which is inevitable, even years after a Blight – we’ll ease you into the Deep Roads.”

I nodded. The man hadn’t led me wrong yet.

“What did that Sten tell you when he gave you that sword?”

“As spoke the ashkaari, ‘then change yourself; you make your own world’,” I answered immediately.

It was only after the words died on my lips that I realized I’d spoken them in Qunlat.

The Chief’s chin was in his hand again, and he rubbed his jaw hard enough I expected to see skin come off.

“And then you forgot what came before,” he said, half to himself. In a louder voice, he asked, “You know what that means?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you took it to heart?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of fucking course you did.”

“Chief?”

“I’ve spent nearly a year looking for traces of you before Denerim, kid. Nobody knows one damn thing. I was starting to think you fell out of the sky. And now I hear you were just doing what the Arishok told you to.”

“Arishok?” Krem echoed, in a tone laced with shock. “The one Hawke killed?”

“Nah, the new Arishok.”

“If you’d get names this would all be easier to keep straight, you know.”

“Don’t start.”

“Are we good?” I asked, before the conversation shifted too far to be brought back, and I was left with the uncomfortable uncertainty of the Chief’s opinion of me.

“I’ll change where I look,” he said in lieu of an answer. “Might be you got reprogrammed and it broke something inside. I’ve seen it happen. No telling how you ended up in Denerim, but it’s a lead.”

He shifted his gaze back up to mine. “If I find out who you were… Do you want me to tell you?”

I was shaking my head before I realized I’d made a decision. “Whoever I was before… I’m Twitch now. I like being Twitch. I’d like to keep it simple.”

“I can respect that,” Bull said with a sharp nod. “You could learn from him, Krem.”

“You can take that Koslun bullshit and shove it right up your-“

“Watch it, Vint.”

“Of course, Chief.”

“Now, we’ve checked all of the caves in this quadrant except this one here-“

“Siren and Rocky headed up there this morning,” Krem countered. “Something about the ceiling looking unstable.”

As if summoned, Siren’s voice rang out in the camp beyond the Chief’s tent.

“Found it! First round’s on Rocky!”

“My ass it is!”

With a face-splitting grin, the Chief reached out and knocked the paperweight off the corner of the map, letting the paper roll itself across the table into a tube. In the same motion, he swept has hand across the tabletop and scooped the rolled map into the air and brandished it like a weapon.

“Ha! Let’s take a look at this musty old book, get it back to Montsimmard, and then find some darkspawn for Twitchy to practice on.”

“That’s really not-“ I began to protest.

Bull would have nothing of it. “It’ll be good for you! Put some chest on your chest.”

 

*

 

The Chief’s way of finding darkspawn for me to fight was to take on a long series of jobs that were essentially fetch quests in caves. Random rich asshole wants random magical, ancient or otherwise important artifact. Said bauble was last seen in this area, likely in a _manky ass cave_.

It was three months before we found our first darkspawn; luckily these were above ground, some distance from the hole they’d crawled out of. It was Squirrel who actually sighted them; there weren’t many scouts better than Squirrel. She appeared back in camp, dropping out of a tree at the Chief’s feet with a flourish.

The Chief, for what it was worth, didn’t draw his axe. All the way. This time.

“You gotta quit fucking doing that,” he told the elven scout with a brandished finger for emphasis. “One of these days you’re gonna catch me at a bad time and I’m gonna chop you in half, and I’ll feel real bad about it after.”

“Right, right, too important,” she replied, bouncing from foot to foot. “Band of genlocks, no emissary, one hurlock to lead them. Came out of the owl cave.”

“Yes,” the Chief replied, drawing out the word into three or four syllables. “Where’s Twitch?”

“Here,” I called, rather glumly. To say I wasn’t looking forward to this was an understatement.

“You, Grim, Wilder, and Dalish follow Squirrel back... actually, no. I’ll come too. Grab your gear.”

The _owl cave_ was called as such because of the giant statue of an owl that had fallen over and exposed a crack in the rock. It didn’t seem to have been created intentionally, but there had been signs of darkspawn activity around the entrance. Squirrel had made it a point to stop by on her daily circuit of the area, and today it had paid off.

By the Chief’s estimation, at least. I didn’t quite agree.

“I had to do this with demons, you know,” the Iron Bull rumbled to me as we made our way to the cave. “Fucking hate demons.”

“And you know the Chief did this to Krem with spiders,” Dalish added helpfully.

“What about you?” I countered the mage. “Anything that skeeves you out?”

She shrugged. “Used to hate any humans I found in the forest. That worked itself out, travelling with all of you.”

“No problems with templars?” Wilder asked her.

“Why would templars bother me?” she asked blandly.

“Not worth it,” I told Wilder, as he frowned and prepared to argue.

“Enough now,” the Chief ordered. “Unless you _want_ the darkspawn to hear us coming?”

We passed the rest of the trip in silence, ending with a fifty-pace crawl on our bellies to the top of a sad little ridge. I’d seen furrows in fields create more substantial ridges than this. It was enough to hide us from the genlocks, though, and that was all I could ask for.

There were a good dozen of them. They milled around a bit, so it was hard to be sure. The hurlock was easy to pick out, standing head and shoulders above the rest, and with more decorated armor. The shit they had on was so twisted and corroded, it was hard to tell what the ornaments were supposed to be.

Probably nothing I wanted to think about.

They looked nothing like what they were supposed to be. The genlocks only took their stature from the dwarves they were a perversion of; none of their facial features or proportions were even remotely dwarven. The hurlock was the same height as a normal human – so about even with me – but his face was twisted and asymmetrical. Their skin was... off... grey but not like qunari were grey. They were grey like tree bark is grey; of all the living things of Thedas, they were the outliers, the things most like the dead.

The smell rising off of them immediately brought to mind the smell in Denerim. I had attributed it to the dead, to the gore in the streets and smeared on the walls. It was all them, though. That was their standard odor.

I swallowed back my gag reflex and tightened my grip on my sword.

Grim made a series of gestures I took to mean _if we can smell them, they can’t smell us_ and I was almost grateful for the reek. Almost.

“Stay together,” the Chief breathed almost directly into my ear. There were two genlocks arguing over Maker knew what and Bull took that window of opportunity to lay down the plan. “There is no good strategy for killing ‘spawn because they have no discipline; they are living chaos. Stay together, kill them before they can kill you, and don’t let their weapons strike you. The only cure for the taint is to become a Warden, and we haven’t seen any of those in months.”

With nods all around, the Chief drew his axe and rose to his full height. “Come at me!” he bellowed to the hurlock, who replied with something alien and equally challenging.

And then everything was chaos.

There’s something about fighting – really fighting, with sword and shield and battle brothers – that slows time. Each step is intentional, each movement of each part of each body is considered and planned. You see things coming towards you and react as if in a dance, momentum and balance becoming as important as reflex and instinct.

The genlock were short – dwarf short – and so it was tempting to aim every blow at their heads or necks. They planned for that, though, and had oversized and heavily armored helms that covered them to their shoulders. Below that was more sparsely armored, but you had to overcome the temptation to strike at a natural height.

We were Chargers, though. Bull taught us better.

I caught the first charging genlock in the belly with my sword, knocked him loose with my shield, and then ducked to catch his fellow’s rush. He knocked me back a step – bastards were _solid_ – and then dropped as Grim hamstrung him. He tipped his head back, exposing his neck, and I sliced his jugular. Grim kicked his head forward as my sword came free, containing the blood on the inside of the helmet.

I glanced up and realized Grim wasn’t smiling. I pinched my lips together, suddenly more aware of the blood of my enemies than ever before.

The Iron Bull split a genlock up the middle with the underhanded axe thrust he’d used on me when I’d been recruited, and then caught another in the thigh on his return swing and opened his femoral artery. We all side-stepped the fountain of blood as Squirrel buried an arrow in his chest; we didn’t trust him to have the good sense to stay down and bleed out.

Three of the genlocks inexplicably froze solid – easy prey for Grim, Wilder, and I to bash into oblivion – while Squirrel buried arrows into their fletching into three more. Bull brained another as Wilder swiftly sliced a genlock’s sword arm off at the wrist and then ran him through. We reached the hurlock as a wedge behind Bull.

The Boss didn’t need help to kill one hurlock, but he had it. We circled the leader and systematically chopped him to bits.

As he fell, Dalish walked through the battlefield, “bow” ablaze, and torched every body we’d dropped.

It felt like minutes, but the entire incident lasted only a few seconds.

“Twitch?” the Chief asked.

I nodded, walked to the edge of the woods, and vomited everything I had ever eaten, ever considered eating, and would ever eat again.

I felt the qunari’s hand on my back. “You’ve done it once. You can do it again. The first time is the worst.”

“Right, Boss,” I said between heaves. “Thanks, Boss.”

The Iron Bull chuckled. “I’ll have Squirrel look for more. We’ll beat this for you, kid. No worries.”

Grim handed me a skin of water, and I washed my mouth out. “Thanks, Boss.”

 

*

 

I fought nothing that was not a darkspawn for four solid months. That meant I had a lot of downtime, but it also meant I got good and used to killing genlocks. We saw half a dozen hurlocks in that time, heard one Shriek that never materialized, and lost a man in a battle with an ogre.

I relived Bridger’s death in idle moments for the rest of my life. The Ogre picked him up and squeezed the life out of him. It was familiar to me, in a horrible way, and that made it stick more. I couldn’t place where I’d seen it before, but it wasn’t hard to guess.

Everyone knew there’d been dozens of Ogres in Denerim.

Siren and I wrote back to Highever on his behalf. He didn’t have family there, but he’d had acquaintances. Boomer wrote back and promised to put a posting in the town square, so the word got around.

It was the first letter I’d gotten in awhile. Ophelia had been busy with some ridiculousness or the other in Denerim, and had let three letters go by unanswered. I was starting to worry.

I started the fourth the morning we went into a cave knowing it was full of darkspawn for the first time.

We came out two men short – an Orlesian named Grift and a Marcher we all called Slack – but some eight or nine thousand sovereigns richer, from an old vault we’d found. The noble who’d sent us in this direction had wanted a rubbing from a sign post some three hundred paces from the tunnel into the Deep Roads.

I claimed the credit for fifteen genlock kills and a hurlock. I carried Grift to the surface across my shoulders. And I didn’t vomit once.

Bull clapped me on the back. He couldn’t congratulate me – not with Grift’s corpse on my back – but the meaning was clear; I passed. I was never going to not be afraid of darkspawn, but if the Chargers ran into them on the road I wouldn’t be a liability. The Iron Bull wouldn’t be worried about me getting myself or someone else killed if a pack of ‘spawn showed up on the horizon.

And, as phobias went, darkspawn was an awful reasonable one.

We built the pyre for Grift and Slack while the Sappers closed the Deep Roads entrance. There was no loot in the immediate vicinity, and it was one less route the ‘spawn could take to the surface to cause mayhem amongst the local villages.

A courier trotted into camp as we stood around the fires. I was almost surprised when he called out my name.

 

_Twitch,_

_I don’t know why I’m still surprised by this shit. But, Maker preserve us, you were right. I don’t know how often news is getting to you there, but I’ve heard from Kirkwall. Hawke – or one of his associates, the story changes – blew up the fucking Chantry. There was fighting in the streets and hundreds of civilians died. I heard there was a Rite of Annulment called for on the Circle, and at the end of it all, Hawke had killed both First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith._

_There’s talk of an Exalted March on Kirkwall, although that doesn’t seem to be Justinia’s style._

_You should have been here when the news arrived. Hank literally shit his pants. I’d mentioned it in passing some time ago that you’d told me to never go near Kirkwall, and now Hank thinks you’re the Hand of the Maker or some shit. I told him you said to stay out of Haven, too, and now he’s watching for any news out of the Frostbacks._

_If I would have known this would get him to help gather information, I would have fed him this line ages ago. I owe you one._

_There isn’t much other news. The idea that somebody would blow up the Chantry has everyone running scared. The Chantry here is safe, don’t you worry about that. Nesiara keeps an eye on everyone for us. It might not be true everywhere, but the Denerim Chantry keeps to its purpose._

_Maybe that’s because there’s no Circle in Denerim for it to collude with? I’ll keep my bitterness at bay._

_I hope you’re well there. Forgive me for not writing sooner, I was waiting for the rumors to settle. It was all too unbelievable at first._

_Also, stop chasing darkspawn. There aren’t enough decent shems in the world that I am willing to lose one. Even if it’s an idiot who is altogether too far from home._

_The world is getting scary again, Twitchy. Stay safe._

_Ophelia_

 

“Boss?” I called, rereading the letter again to be sure of the news.

Bull didn’t respond.

“Boss?” I called, tearing my eyes away from the paper to look for the Chief.

It seems he didn’t need my news. He was staring open-mouthed at the letter in his own hands.

“What is it?” Krem asked, the question dangling in the air between the two of us who seemed to know what had happened.

“Somebody blew up the Chantry in Kirkwall.” I answered, when it was clear the Boss wasn't going to.

“Blew it _up_?” Dalish repeated, shocked.

“Not _somebody_ ,” the Chief said, shaking himself out of his stupor. “Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, blew up the Chantry in retaliation for the Rite of Annulment being called on the Kirkwall Circle.”

It wasn’t right, that wasn’t right, that _wasn’t the way the story went_ , but before I could argue, the Iron Bull continued. “And then he killed First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith. Fully half the Circle mages are dead, and a third of the templars are slain or missing.”

“Maker’s pucker,” Wilder said after whistling thinly through his teeth. “That sounds like a mess.”

The Iron Bull was nodding. “It is a mess. That’s a good word for it.”

“Did you get orders from home?” Siren asked.

Bull waved the letter dismissively. “Nothing more than you would expect. We need to get closer to the cities, get more information. War is good for mercenaries; we’ll be in higher demand than ever before.”

“War?” Krem echoed.

“War,” Bull said with a sad sort of nod. “If not now, then soon.”


	15. Supposed Alleged Bandits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bull makes a mistake.  
> -  
> In other news, I was told at least one of the sappers was actually Grimmcake, and well. This happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a bad day. Like, woah. I don't live in Nice and I don't know anybody in Nice and I can't claim a day as bad as they can, but I had a bad enough day that I'm posting this WAY earlier than I intended to because I need to wake up tomorrow to an inbox full of kindness.  
> Or criticism. Either way, knowing there's somebody on the other side of this text box will help my day tomorrow tremendously.  
> Help a sister out?

Ophelia’s correspondence settled back into our established pattern, and the Chargers went back to work. The war we were expecting didn’t show up immediately, and we had to live in the meantime. The Iron Bull went to work finding us noble benefactors who would double as sources of information and respectable references.

“Got bandits,” Bull announced as he walked back into camp one crisp autumn morning. “They’re running the road west of Red Crossing. Comte Pierre Florissant says they’ve settled into one of his mines, wants us to clear it out.”

Krem shrugged. “Sounds easy enough.”

Bull shook his head. “Sounds like it, right? Something is off.”

“So why you’d take the job?”

“Call it professional curiosity.”

“Call it stupid.”

“Watch that backtalk, Krem. And pack some shovels.”

“Shovels?”

“Shovels.”

It was two days down the road to Red Crossing, and another hour or two past the town to the road where the bandits were said to be encamped. We sent scouts down the road ahead of us, and ranging to either side of the highway, but no bandits were found.

“Know we’re coming?” Krem guessed.

The Chief scowled, deep in thought. “Who would have tipped them? I don’t like this.”

“Why’d you take the job, again?”

“What did I say about that lip?”

Rocky’s sappers could find a cave blindfolded in the rain, and Bull sent the whole lot of them out to find the mine the nobleman wanted reclaimed.

We hadn’t had time to find seats for everyone before one of the sappers trotted back to the clearing we were sitting in.

“What you got, Cake?” Bull asked.

“Cake?” I whispered to Siren.

She shrugged. “Maybe he’s the sweetest of them.”

“No attempt to hide,” the sapper apparently called Cake reported. “Miners coming in and out. Some indications of bandits, but they aren’t preying on the mine or the miners.”

“Where’s the rest of your team?” the Chief pressed.

“Rocky took Ice and Chanter with him to sneak into the mine. Coffee and Doodles are scouting the outside.”

“Wait, why Doodles?” I whispered to Siren, who seemed unsurprised by the sappers’ names.

“He draws on the rock surfaces he means to blow up,” she whispered back.

“The fuck?”

“How do you not know this? We’ve been running with them for _months_.”

“I can’t even tell them apart! They’re the same height, same build, same armor...”

Siren sighed as Bull and Krem made a plan and Skinner listened intently over Grim’s shoulder. “You can tell by mannerism, jackass. Coffee’s the one who acts like he’s jacked up on sweets all the time. Cake’s the only one who ever smiles. Ice is the straight man – always deadpan, never gets worked up. Then you’ve got Doodles, like I said, and Chanter, who’s Andrastian.”

“What’s being Andrastian got to do with mannerism?”

“I don’t know. That’s just why the name’s Chanter.”

“Chargers!” the Chief bellowed. “Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

We hadn’t been there long enough to set up camp, so we shouldered our packs and trotted behind the Chief towards the mine.

“Hello!” one of the miners called as we neared. “You the new team the Comte said to expect?”

“Yeah, that’s us!” Bull called back. “The directions were trash, though, took forever to find the mine.”

A couple of the miners laughed, as the one who seemed to be the spokesman came out to meet us. “Jakko is in the back, working on getting the next shipment together. They told us to expect a big group, but Maker there’s a lot of you. We might have to convert another couple veridium shafts to bunks!”

Bull laughed and clapped the man on the back. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, no?” the miner laughed along. “That’s a good philosophy in a merc! Glad to have you on board.”

Bull led us away from the miners and into the massive mine shaft.

The mine was primarily veridium, but there was always iron to be found. Here in the Dales it was possible to find everite, and a rare vein or two would pull an entire mine crew away from everything else until it was exhausted.  The miners became more and more rare as we descended into the mine, although the structure seemed sound. We picked up all the sappers on the way in, and Rocky assured us of the stability of the supports. “I could blow shut the entrance without breaking a sweat, but down here? Down here is solid.”

The mine was deeper than the giant’s cave had been, deeper than anything short of the Deep Roads that we’d ventured in to. I started expecting to see dwarven architecture, we got so far into the mountain.

The cavern at the end of the tunnel was just that – a cavern. It showed evidence of extensive mining, with shafts disappearing into the rock face at every conceivable angle. There was scaffolding set up around the periphery, and a sort of wall-less three-story building in the middle of it all, where each “floor” had a desk or two and a series of beds.

This was apparently bandit central, as no one here looked anything like a miner.

“Greetings!” the man nearest the cavern entrance called. “You the Comte’s new recruits? What, the Chargers, I think he said?”

Bull lifted a hand, made a gesture we all knew, and we quickly divested ourselves of anything that would over-encumber us in a fight. Nobody drew weapons; we gave the message that we were on the _de_ fensive, not the _of_ fensive.

“There seems to be a misunderstanding,” Bull rumbled, hands in front of him, palms up. “See, the Comte hired us to get rid of the bandits infesting this mine.”

“Get rid of us? Bandits? We’re his bloody _employees_ ,” the man spat. I stepped to the side to get a better look at the poor bastard. They were all rather standard Orlesians; bizarre facial hair, average heights and builds, relatively pale skinned. The leader had a very impressive handlebar mustache and was otherwise nondescript.

“I’ve got my contract,” Bull said, in the tone I recognized as _negotiations are now open_. “Do you have anything to show your relationship with the Comte?”

“Get your contract,” the so-called bandit leader said with a wave as he turned towards his own desk. “I’ve got bills of lading, supply manifests, signed orders... whatever you want to see, I’ve probably got. I might just be a man-at-arms, but I’m not stupid.”

As Bull and the bandit leaned over the man’s desk and began unravelling this mystery, a distant rumble of thunder echoed down the cavern.

“Shit piss tits bloody fuck,” Rocky ranted as he turned on his heel and darted up the tunnel. Two of his sappers – Coffee and Ice, I thought – hauled off after him, while the other three set about shoring up the entrance to the cavern we were in.

Bull didn’t seem to notice, as he was looking more and more grim as he and the bandit talked.

“Rotten bastard knows the mine isn’t performing as well as it used to,” I heard the Mustachioed Orlesian say to the Boss as I edged nearer to listen. “He can’t pay the taxes and turn a profit, so we smuggle the ore out, sell it to a man in Jader who can fetch a pretty price in the Free Marches. He’s got all these miners on the payroll, though, so he calls us _bandits_ and we hire mercs to stage the occasional robbery on the road to make the whole business seem plausible. He’s reporting to the tax collector that bandits are stripping his mine and he’s taking a loss, to keep from paying the tariff.”

“And you thought we were the new band of mercs coming to stage the bandit raids,” Bull rumbled. “While we were under the impression he wanted you cleared out.”

“Contracts are different,” Krem noted, looking at the two papers upside-down from the wrong side of the desk. “Different seals on ours. More official, maybe?”

“He ran it by the magistrate,” Bull said, before beginning to curse.

“Got sick of us, did he? Maybe got pressure from the tax collector?” the bandit grumbled. “Rotten bastard. He wants us out, we’ll get out. Doesn’t have to have us murdered.”

“He does if he wants to cover his tracks,” Bull countered. “And since we didn’t come in here swinging-“

“Tunnel entrance was blown!” Rocky announced, bursting back into the cavern. “We’re sealed in!”

“Any other exits?” Bull asked the Orlesian.

“No. Damn it.”

Bull cocked his eyebrow at Krem. “You did bring the shovels, right?”

Krem smiled. “You leave nothing to chance, do you, Chief?”

“Chargers!” the Iron Bull called. “We’ve got some digging to do, and a nobleman who needs killing.”

We split into five teams, headed by one of Rocky’s sappers. Rocky and the Chief were a team unto themselves, tackling individual problems while the rest of us attacked the main collapse in shifts.

The mustachioed Orlesian – who was the Jakko referred to by the miner – brought his team of alleged bandits out into the cave system to find whatever shovels, picks, or explosives they could get their hands on. When they’d stripped the cave, they joined us at digging our way out.

“Might take us two days,” I heard Rocky report to Doodles, who was leading my team. “If the miners on the outside decide to pitch in, at least. Without any help from out there? Could be longer.”

“We came in with all our supplies,” Doodles replied with a shrug. “We’ve got food to last a solid five days, and there’s more than one water source in the caves. We should be fine.”

_We should be fine_ wasn’t the sort of thing that normally bolstered confidence, but the sappers’ lack of concern was all it took to keep us going.

They were damn liars.

It was a solid six days to dig out, and that was largely due to the miners on the outside _throwing more debris across the entrance_ before abandoning us to the cave.

“Food,” Bull announced once we were all standing in the daylight once more. “Everybody get a solid meal, and then load up.”

“Camp? Baths? Naps?” various voices called out queries.

Bull shook his head. “Nobody buries us. We’re not giving him the time to find out we’re loose.”

 

*

 

Squirrel and Skinner disappeared into the woods and came back with a fat ram by the time the rest of us had hauled water and gotten a fire going. We pulled the ram in half, and two teams carved it up into strips that would cook quickly over the fire. A man can’t live on meat alone, but we weren’t looking for long term survival.

We just needed enough in our stomachs to fuel immediate revenge.

We were back on the road within three hours, jogging down the road at a pace only betrayal can sustain. Krem and I passed through the ranks, making sure everyone was on board with the plan.

There wasn’t one complaint, not one dissenting opinion.

We were a solid group, a reputable group. We’d been working in Orlais for years, and this random piece of shit had set us up, buried us alive, and left us to die.

We left our gear in a thicket maybe two miles from the Comte’s villa. Some of the elves, particularly the dalish, were a bit rougher for wear, and volunteered to stay in the sunshine and recover while watching our supplies. The rest of us continued into the Villa at the same ground-eating jog.

It was dark by the time we got to the gates. Skinner led five of her scouts over the wall, and with thin knives they removed the paltry guards from the equation.

The rest of us – still covered in soot and filth from nearly a week underground – snuck through the villa. Servants were bound and gagged or merely knocked unconscious. Women and children were encouraged to remain silent and placed in one of the cellars with blankets and an hourglass, along with the instruction to come out when the last grain of sand had fallen.

Siren and I held the door open for the Boss to walk into the Comte’s bedchamber. Krem stood by the window as the Iron Bull reared back and lopped off one of the posters of the nobleman’s bed. As the canopy collapsed and the man woke up screaming, Siren discretely shut the door.

“You don’t want to know?” I asked.

She shrugged. “The fewer witnesses the better.”

The screaming didn’t last long. Bull wasn’t a monster, regardless of what the popular opinion of Qunari might be. The nobleman had wronged us, and the Chief meant to make it right.

Grim and I agreed that the Comte needed to be dragged down to the mine and sealed in. Siren suggested a shorter route, with an unfortunate roof collapse in the wine cellar. The Iron Bull opted, instead, for a signed confession and the liberation of all the Comte’s paperwork describing his tax evasion and financing of banditry. He carefully removed any reference to the Chargers, sealed the paperwork with the Comte’s signet, and sent it all to Val Royeaux with the stammering, terrified Steward.

The Comte, he split in half with his axe and left him lying in his bed. We made sure to knock as much dirt out of our clothes while we were on the nicer carpets before leaving.

“Women and children in the basement?” Krem confirmed. Siren nodded. “No burning the place down behind us, then.”

“Take a head count. Make sure all the Chargers – and Jakko’s bandits – are accounted for. Then let’s get out of here.”

One of Jakko’s men was missing – Jakko himself came back grim-faced from the basement and said the problem had been handled – and the rest of us cleared out of the villa.

“Tell me again why we took this job, Chief?” Krem asked.

The Iron Bull sighed. “I probably deserve that one.”

“Did we still get paid?”

Bull snorted. “What do you take me for? A fool?”

“I won’t answer that.”

“You only get so much backtalk, Krem.”

“Right, Chief.”

 

 

_Ophelia,_

_Kyler does know where babies come from, right? I can’t believe she wants a girl so bad that she's **already** knocked up again. She has two healthy sons!_   _Lady_ _should cut her losses and keep those knees together. Tell her I said that. I know you love the face she makes when she’s pissed at something; this way you get to see it without actually being in trouble. Once she's good and pissed, tell her I don't mean it and I'm stupid excited for her. How are you so sure it's a girl, anyways?_

_I probably could have guessed about Hank and Brue. I suppose Brue having a wife threw me. As much as I wish that whole tragedy could have been averted, I’m glad those two assholes finally came to terms with each other. Brue’s boys having two dads might be the best thing to ever happen to them._

_Thank you for the continued reassurances about the Chantry there. I’m glad they’re getting good use out of Natty’s old house. It does my cold dead heart good to know the tough old bird is still making a difference in that town._

_I don’t like your inference about all the new templars in Denerim. Nesiara is a great asset and she’ll do what she can to keep you safe, but she **is** Andrastian. If her Revered Mother tells her to serve the Maker by turning in apostates in the alienage, can you be sure your family tie is enough to bind? She is your cousin’s widow, I know, but **still**. I don’t like it. _

_I know you have more than enough on your plate, but I need a favor. It’ll be easy, I promise.  
We may or may not have just gotten screwed six ways to Sunday and split a guy in half to even the score. Legally, we were in the right. Except the murder bit, but nobody can really prove that was us. And it’s Orlais. ANYways. If you could let me know if you hear anything you think might be about us? It’s a reputation thing. If it stays quiet, we’re good. If it spreads... well. The Boss would want to know, and it would look good for me to be able to tell him whether there’s any whispers about it in Denerim._

_The Chief is talking about another recruitment run into Ferelden this spring. I’m not sure what it will be like to be in Highever again – so close to Denerim, but so far. I’ll let you know when we plan to be there, in case you feel like stretching those legs and maybe seeing some more of the world._

_-Twitch_


	16. The Dalish Noble's Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or the one with the squirrels.
> 
> *
> 
> You know who liked Squirrel? Coffeeguru liked Squirrel. You know something else about Coffeeguru? She's the sister I always wanted, and her birthday is today! So in honor of [Coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru), I'm completely bucking any pretense of schedule and posting this bit today. I'm travelling this weekend (to go see Coffee!) so it will be a bit before the next chapter goes up.

“Going to stay low for awhile,” the Iron Bull announced. “Stretch of forest in the Dales needs cleared of what’s being called _malicious spirits_. Probably just particularly inventive squirrels. Anyway, it will get us out of sight for a bit.”

“We need to be out of sight?” Siren asked.

Bull shrugged. “After that bit with the miners? Yeah, probably for the best. Word’s getting around and it will die if we don’t feed it. Best way to manage that is take safer jobs.”

“Like squirrels in the Dales?” Krem laughed.

I heard a snort near the edge of camp, on the treeline, and didn’t have to glance back to know it was our very own Squirrel. “Squirrels can be dangerous when cornered,” she chided our Lieutenant.

We laughed about it for days.

We stopped laughing when we got to the forest in question.

The air smelled _wrong_ in a way I had no words for.

“Sylvans,” Dalish hissed, freezing everyone in place. It was rare to get any kind of emotion out of Dalish beyond amused disdain.

“You sure about that?” the Chief rumbled.

Dalish nodded once, sharply. “It’s not a smell one ever forgets.”

The Iron Bull took a long breath and looked around. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t looking _at_ anything, but merely moving while his brain worked.

“Axes,” he said after a long minute of overwhelming silence. “And fire. Rocky, you and your sappers meet with Dalish and I once we get camp set. Skinner, find a place for camp. Krem, you and Twitch make some teams, hit up every village in the vicinity, and get us as many axes as you can lay hands on.”

The Chargers were on the move within minutes. Krem, Siren, and I each led a team of four Chargers in three different directions down a nearby fork in the road. I had Grim, Meck, and Wilder with me. We came back with three axes apiece; once the villagers knew what we wanted them for, they practically gave them to us. I gave them three silver and the promise that I would bring them back when we were done, if they were intact. They kept the silver and waved off the return.

“You put one of those in a sylvan,” the town smith told us, “we don’t want it back.”

Krem and Siren met with similar success, and we had almost as many axes as we had Chargers.

Stitches and Rocky were mixing up huge batches of something called Antivan Fire when we got back; Dalish was supervising carefully, her “bow” at the ready. Rocky and his sappers were churning out dozens of little clay pots, while two of their number hauled clay up from the river bank. We were keeping the river between us and the sylvan grove, so Grim and I led another six or so Chargers down to help haul clay while keeping a careful watch over the trees across the water.

A pit was dug and filled with what deadfall we could find, and then lit. We fed it all night, until there was a bed of coals in the bottom that could roast a boar. They used the pit to fire the clay pots; they ended up a bit smashed and lopsided, but since they were intended to have a very short lifespan all that mattered was that they could hold liquid.

As the pots cooled, they were filled with the Antivan Fire and then sealed with treesap brought back by Squirrel and Grim.

It took nearly three days to prep, but when we forded the river into the sylvan grove, we were all armed with an axe and a dozen Antivan Fire grenades.

“Sylvans are possessed trees,” the Chief explained. “Whatever is possessing the trees can possess fuck-all anything, so watch for wolves, bears, rams... anything that you would normally expect to run could attack, instead.”

“Don’t think of them as trees,” Dalish added. “You’re not cutting them down. The axes are for cutting off limbs, not for aiming low. Your best asset is fire.”

“Do not split up,” the Chief admonished as we gathered our gear and prepared to go. “I mean it. No one is ever to be alone. And we’re not being paid to burn the woods down. I don’t want to see anything on fire that isn’t a sylvan.”

“Aye, Chief,” Krem called, with a sharp nod, and then we were off.

We were only a few hundred paces into the woods when I became the first casualty. Something hit me in the head, and I jerked my face to the right and pitched my body to the ground. I felt a line of searing pain erupt just behind my ear and drag down my neck to stop at the top of my sternum. I hit the ground on my right side and my left eye filed with blood.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Siren shouted, and then chaos reigned.

Stitches was there in a heartbeat, pulling me to my feet and quickly rinsing my eye clear of blood with a skin of slightly salty water. I blinked and was relieved to find I hadn’t become a cyclops like the Boss. As my vision cleared, I saw Siren flick something brown and furry off her sword.

"What the fuck hit me?” I asked, running my hand down my neck and having it come back covered in blood.

“Demonic. Fucking. _Squirrels_.” Siren gritted, kicking what was left of the bloodthirsty rodent into the underbrush. “There’s no amount of money worth this.”

“It’s not life-threatening,” Stitches said to me while everyone else batted at the angry tree-rats. “It’s gonna bleed like a stuck nug, though, given where it’s at. I’m going to let it bleed, too; cleanest option we’ve got out here.”

“Tell me I ain’t dyin’, Stitches,” I told the healer as I stowed my axe and drew my sword and shield.

“You ain’t dyin’, kid.”

“Good. All I needed.”

“Go get ‘em.”

I held my shield over my head like a damn umbrella and worked at slicing up any squirrels that came my way. They were ridiculously fast and stupidly small, and would have been impossible to hit if they weren’t _leaping at my fucking face_. The first rush was twenty or more of the little bastards, and then they became sporadic. It might be a few minutes between attacks, but rest assured another little fucker would appear soon and go for right for somebody’s _eyes_.

“Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.” Krem grunted between swipes with the flat of his axe. They were easier to hit that way, and they tended to be stunned momentarily when they landed, and easier to finish off.

“We must find the demon responsible for this and _kill it_ ,” Dalish asserted. “That will stop all of this madness.”

The team ended up halved shortly thereafter. Bull took Grim, Wilder, the sappers, and about half the rest of the company with the hopes of destroying the heart of the sylvans.

Krem, Siren, Dalish, and I led the rest in the opposite direction. We had Squirrel with us, who seemed to take her demonic namesakes as a personal challenge.

“Come at me!” she screamed whenever a new demon tree rat would appear. _“I am your master!”_

It wasn’t that far from the truth, honestly. She was one of the few who managed to escape the entire escapade without a single scratch, and she killed easily forty of the little fuckers.

We came across a sylvan almost immediately; it was as big as the giant we’d fought, but flexible in a way humanoid joints couldn’t manage. We all drew axes and circled it, watching for squirrels and batting them away with the flats of our blades like Krem had done. We led the thing into a clearing, where it was safe to chuck Antivan Fire at it and light it up.

Once it slumped over, we stomped out the fire and went looking for another.

We went through five sylvans that way – and maybe seventy squirrels – before the attacks stopped and the woods went silent. Then, in the distance, off in the direction Bull had gone, a massive fire ball soared into the sky and the Chief’s hoot of triumph ghosted over the treetops.

We made our way through the woods towards the other half of the Chargers.

We kept our axes out, though.

The Iron Bull had found the cave in the middle of the woods that a local apostate had made his last stand against a rage demon in, and found the abomination that was drawing demons across the Veil to infest the trees. There were a few wolves in the area that had needed to be put down, but aside from that the other team had met with little trouble...

...and almost no squirrels.

“Not fair,” Siren griped as we split into teams of five to sweep the rest of the forest – just to be thorough. “We fought through a hundred _bloody squirrels_ and they’ll get all the credit for the kill.”

“The Chargers get the credit for the kill,” I shrugged. “And we all get a share of the pay.”

“Squirrels, Twitch,” she countered. “Demonic. Fucking. _Squirrels_.”

“You’ll have a great story for your grandkids,” I laughed.

“And you’ll have to admit you got that scar from a _squirrel_ ,” she teased.

“You think it’ll scar?”

“Oh, that’s gonna scar,” Stitches affirmed when the sweep came back clear and we all settled back into our camp on the safe side of the river. “Sorry, kid. It’s going to be a nasty one, too. Already scabbed over, not much I can do for it.”

“Meh,” I sighed. “It was inevitable. Couldn’t stay this pretty forever.”

“That’s what I say!” the Chief bellowed. The casks were broached about then and the scar didn’t matter anymore. I’d kept the eye... in the grand scheme of things, that’s what was important.

We didn’t spend much more time in the woods. As much as we were sure we’d eliminated the abomination at the heart of the problem – as well as the squirrels and the sylvans – there were other places to go and other things to do.

Word that had gotten around about the badness with the Comte de Florissant’s mine was mostly good for us; we’d gotten screwed and handled it legally – as far as anyone could prove. No one was too interested in following up on the particulars of the Comte’s death. It seems his younger brother was the heir, since the Comte had been too important to sire legitimate children, and the new Comte was a surprisingly decent human being, as far as Orlesians go. Reparations and back taxes were paid, and the mine began operation again with a markedly smaller crew.

We took four – or was it five? – jobs after the sylvan shitshow before the news broke that changed the world.

“Nevarran Accord was nullified,” the Boss announced softly in camp one afternoon after the courier arrived. I hadn’t had a letter from Opie for awhile, but it wasn’t exactly overdue yet; I wouldn’t have started worrying for another week if not for this news. “The Circle in Dairsmuid was annulled within minutes of the news reaching Rivain.”

We sat looking at the boss in shock. A movement out of the corner of my eye drew my attention – it was Wilder, putting a hand to Dalish’s shoulder. Meck was sitting on her other side. Dalish was staring at the fire. She’d always been an apostate, never a Circle mage, but the idea of the mass slaughter happening to people who hadn’t the luck to be born of The People? It was sobering for everyone.

“Got three requests already; noble houses with various children in the Circles, wanting their scions brought home,” the Bull announced, rifling through the stack of letters he’d had delivered. “No want for work, it seems, but most of these mages were last seen in Ferelden.”

“Back across the mountains, kids,” Krem said, standing to dust himself off. “We could be halfway to the Orzammar pass by noon nightfall if we start now.”

“Gear up,” the Bull ordered, by way of agreement.

I trotted over to the courier, who was looking to leave. “Wait a minute, man, let me write something real quick, okay?”

“You paying?” the man countered. He’d never asked before.

“I’ll give you a solid sovereign for a letter to Denerim.”

He exhaled a breath of relief. “Thought you wanted me to go tracking into the wilds looking for some asshole mage, like every other man I deliver to besides your Chief. Denerim’s fine, no charge for a Charger.”

“Thanks, man, just wait a minute, okay?”

“Deal.”

I darted back to my bags and pulled out my writing supplies.

“Got enough for a couple more?” Siren asked, biting her lip.

“Pull up some grass and sit with me,” I answered.

By the time I finished my letter for Opie and thought to send one to the sisters of West Hill, five other Chargers had sat down to pen letters. I pressed a gold sovereign – the first I’d taken from my inheritance from Natalia – into the courier’s hands. “Will this cover my friends, as well?”

The man nodded, a bit reluctantly.

An hour later, he was out of camp, my writing supplies were stoppered and secured, and the Chargers were heading northeast. I was returning home to Ferelden.

 

_Opie,_

_Maker, I hope you’ve already heard this and gone to ground. They annulled the Nevarran Accord. The templars left the Chantry. The Circle at Dairsmuid has been annulled. Dairsmuid! We’re crossing into Ferelden in the next few days, by way of the Orzammar pass, and we’ll be looking for mages in the hills near Redcliffe. There’s a good bounty on mages... but not the way you think. Families are looking for the return of their relatives from the now-defunct Circles. The Boss has a number of letters asking for help, and hopefully it will keep us in business and away from the rumors in Orlais._

_Orlais isn’t safe, either. There’s growing talk of Civil War, with Grand Duke Gaspard becoming more and more vocal about his right to the throne. Boss says we need to not get shackled to one side or the other in the war, and meant for us to work as short-term bodyguards and escorts through the chaos. Any excuse to get the hell out of Orlais is a good one, as far as he’s concerned._

_The point is, we’re heading your way. If Denerim falls apart... come find us._

_We’ll protect you. I will protect you. I swear it._

_Stay safe._

_Twitch_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always sort of wondered why the Chargers - who said they did all their work in Orlais, and all their stories take place in Orlais - are in the Storm Coast when you meet them. Why did they cross over into Ferelden?  
> I think searching for newly apostate mages - for bounties, of course - would make an awful lot of sense.  
> And it's super convenient from my plot's standpoint, so it's this world's canon now.  
> In other news, I almost forgot about Twitch's signature scar and had to add it in before it was too late.


	17. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, that bright spring morning in 9.40 Dragon.  
> Back to the story!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going up a little early so I can say this:  
> I am posting this from Coffee's couch! Hello! 
> 
> Also, this is one of the first things I wrote when I started this work and I have been DYING to post it for AGES.

“That’s my great aunt Edith’s seal,” the mage – Rosalie, her name – said with a snort. “Three of her sons are templars. If she wants me back, it’s for target practice.”

She was the fourth mage we’d found since we’d gotten into Ferelden, and the second who scoffed at the bounty letter we showed. Bull had decided it was the best way to start things off on the right foot. That, and Dalish had to be a bit more forthcoming than usual. Like the others, Rosalie agreed to travel with us for a ways, so that her trail was harder to follow and the next mage on the list had someone arguably safer than a team of mercenaries to approach him and offer safe passage home.

“Story out of Val Royeaux is an old senior enchanter and her pet golem wrecked the stores of phylacteries,” the mage after Rosalie, Edmun, told us. “I heard a golem traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, maybe it was old Solona out for revenge.”

“Sounds like something Solona would do,” I agreed with a laugh.

Edmun was from Jader, and decided the bounty letter was genuine. He wrote home immediately, mentioning the Chargers as his benefactor for bounty-collecting purposes, and then set off for home with Rosalie in tow. We were close to the King's Highway in the bannorn, so we didn't worry much for their safety.

It was relatively boring work, if well paying. We split up, asked questions, and took side jobs whenever possible, but most of the work in finding the apostates was falling to Bull and Skinner’s scouts. Siren and I agreed that it was better than being stuck in a civil war in Orlais.

We ducked south to Redcliffe when the scouts reported signs of heavy snowfall to our north. It was a beautiful spring morning in 9.40 Dragon when the courier found us, resupplying in the village that was famous for its survival during the Blight.

For the first time in too long, he had a letter for me.

 

 

_Twitch,_

_He must have been in Denerim already, to come at me so fast._

_The news came about the Nevarran Accord – just like you fucking said! – and within two days Simon came for me. I never told you about it, but he’s the Templar who tracked me when I left the Circle. He apparently never forgave Solona for tricking him but he couldn’t get to her… I wasn’t so lucky._

_Sorisa got tipped and I got out of the alienage in time. I got the fucking clothes on my back, my bracers, and just enough coins to send you this message. The armorer you worked with set me up as best he could; I’m sorry, but I told him you were good for it. Fair warning if you ever come back through Denerim; you owe somebody a fuckton of money. I can't stay hidden in Denerim much longer; they're getting desperate to find me._

_I can’t tell you where I’m going. I know I don’t have to. I’ve got one direction to run, and hopefully Simon will follow this courier and it’ll buy me some time._

_My cousin is writing you in two days in case this letter doesn’t get through._

_I never meant to leave Denerim._

_I’m so fucking scared._

 

 

The letter wasn’t signed, but I’d been looking at the handwriting for nine years. She could have put any name at the bottom and I would have known it was her. The unfamiliar, cheap paper was torn in places, evidence of a borrowed quill, and covered with what I desperately worked to convince myself were rain drops or water spots.

They wouldn’t be tears. They couldn’t be tears. Ophelia didn’t cry, didn’t let me _see_ her cry.

But then my eyes latched onto the last line and it didn’t matter what the splotches were from.

I hadn’t unpacked – we’d only rolled into Redcliffe that morning, after all – and it was the work of a moment to pen a quick letter to Senna and then go looking for Bull.

“Chief, I need a leave of absence.”

The Iron Bull was sitting on the floor of the inn – none of the chairs were built for his bulk – with his feet on the short lip of the hearth. Krem was sitting with his back to the fire, probably too close for safety. We’d all taken a chill today, but my statement seemed to drive the air colder.

“You need a what?”

“A leave. A short one, I hope. I need to get to Amaranthine. It’s… a personal matter.”

The eyebrow over the missing eye went up. “A personal matter? You? You’re having a personal matter?”

I flinched. “Yeah.”

Krem spun around to face me more directly. “What kind of personal matter?”

“It’s… it’s a friend. She’s from Denerim and she-“

“It’s a _girl_?” Krem demanded, far too loudly for my tastes. Siren and Rocky put their ciders down and turned to listen.

“It’s not like that.”

“By all means, tell us how it is,” Chief said as he pulled his feet of the hearth and sat up a bit straighter.

This was going to get bad, fast.

“She’s… she’s… fuck, you guys, can’t you just give me this? I never ask for anything.”

“No,” Krem and Bull said at the same time. Krem laughed as the Chief kept talking. “You. Are having a personal matter. In _Amaranthine_ of all places. Involving a female. I am not going to _just give you this_. The Chargers have to be more important than some broad.”

“If you got called back to Seheron,” I told him, and his jaw clicked shut, “and we split up, and four or five years later I got word that Krem, or you, or Siren, or Dalish, or _anybody here_ was in trouble, I would ask my new boss for a leave to go help them out.”

“Who is she?” Bull asked.

“Apostate,” I answered softly. “Escaped the Circle before the Blight. She had my back for _two years_ , Chief. Two years. Some Templar has been waiting for this opportunity for a decade and she ran the only direction she knew to, but the help she thinks she’s heading for isn’t there.”

“You think she’s running into trap,” Bull surmised.

I shook my head. “I think she’s running into a corner and expecting to find salvation. Only it ain’t coming.”

The Iron Bull pushed up from the floor and gestured to the door. I nodded and obediently trudged outside into the still spring air. I heard rather than saw the Chief follow me out and shut the door behind us.

“Who’s she looking for that isn’t there?”

“She was friends with Solona Amell in the Circle, before Solona was recruited into the Wardens,” I told him. “Solona helped her escape. But Solona isn’t in Amaranthine.”

“How do you know that?”

There was a surge of something – anger, maybe, or fear – in the back of my mind, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

“I met her, in Denerim, after the Blight. She’s the one who started calling me Twitch. I _know_ her. She’s a spirit healer, Chief, she’s being targeted. Everybody’s looking for her. There’s no way she stayed put. Opie has to know that, too, but she’s out of options. Maybe she’s hoping to run into Alistair, I don’t know.”

“Opie?”

“She goes by Ophelia.”

“But that’s not her name.”

“No, ser.”

“And her name is?”

“Don’t make me try to choose allegiances, Chief,” I begged, and he fell silent with a nod.

He was quiet for a long time. I couldn’t read his gaze – something about the eye patch always threw me – but we stood in the weak sunlight until I had to clench my teeth to keep from shivering.

“You’re going to need a horse,” he decided. “Come on.”

 

*

 

The trip to Amaranthine from the village of Redcliffe was nightmarish.

A late-season blizzard had covered the central part of Ferelden with two or three feet of snow, and it took time for farmers and the Kingsguard to clear the roads. I was perpetually cold, wet, and delayed. What should have taken a week on horseback ended up being three.

I arrived, soggy and shivering and exhausted, to find the arling _fucking crawling_ with Templars.

They were targeting spirit healers, who were rare enough. There were _two_ known to have spent time in Amaranthine, which made it prime hunting ground; the templars were as eager to kill Anders as they were to brand Solona.

There were enough of them, they might have managed it.

Solona Amell was _Solona fucking Amell_ though, and she pulled the Wardens out of Amaranthine with a polite notice to the crown once they were well away. Rumor had it they had locked themselves into some impenetrable fortress somewhere on the Storm Coast, and there was no one alive who remembered the route through the mountains. That, and Anora had declared the area off limits until she was personally contacted by Warden Commander Amell or one of her known seconds. A trek to Soldier’s Peak was treason for a Fereldan, or an act of war by an Orlesian.

Ophelia could have slipped through… if she would have known to. And if she could have found someone to guide her.

But as it stood, she fled Denerim to save her family and she ran in the only direction she could on short notice.

The templars had followed.

The three WANTED posters I saw most frequently were of Solona Amell, the rogue Anders, and Kaiopi Surana.

It was quickly apparent, from the talk on the roads by the various traders and Templars I came across, that they had her cornered, as well. It was only a matter of time before she was branded… or dead. I did my best to stay hidden and listen to rumors, but if anybody knew where she was, they weren’t talking. Instead, I made my way to the place I figured she would go, since she’d never been in Amaranthine, either. We were both outsiders grasping at straws.

Vigil’s Keep was creepy, damaged, and abandoned. There was a story going around about how there was a darkspawn incursion a couple of years after the Blight, but Amell had managed to save the town as well as the keep. I avoided the town entirely and made my way into the place Solona had recently called home.

I was halfway up the causeway to the gate house when I heard the sounds of battle.

Judging by the screams of _“Maleficar!”_ and the explosions filling the area with smoke, templars had cornered a mage.

I had left my horse in a thicket just beyond arrow range of the walls, and so my charge into the warden’s keep was unmounted and alone.

No one saw it, though; the courtyard was empty. I cleared six doorways before I finally found her.

Her head was split and blood was running freely down the right side of her face. She was filthy, plainly exhausted, and had managed to kill at least twelve or thirteen templars. There were six left, though, and she was on her last dregs. She had her back to a wall, on a narrow ledge at the top of a ladder. The other route to reach her took you into direct line of sight with her twice as it wound around the wall, and that was tantamount to suicide. The templars were doing their best to wear her down, and would pounce as soon as she faltered.

“Stop! In the name of the Queen!”

The six templars all spun around to stare at me in shock.

“This woman is wanted in connection with the death of Arl Vaughan. She is to be brought in _undamaged_ to face the Queen’s justice.”

“Go fuck yourself,” one of the templars scoffed, turning back to Ophelia. He was wearing a Captain’s insignia, so I judged him to be in charge. “No mage gets the Queen’s Justice.”

“Come say that to my fucking face,” I countered, and he slowly pivoted back. I assumed him to be the Ser Simon of Ophelia’s letter.

“Are you daft?”

“You can’t be a company worth a shit if _one elf mage_ managed to kill off two-thirds of you,” I said, scanning the room. I could not look at Opie, not and keep my composure. I hoped she recognized me. I hoped she was looking for an opening to escape. “So I should be able to handle the other six of you myself. I mean, what kind of worthless pedophile fuckbag has to bring eighteen men to capture _one elf_?”

He started to cross the room towards me. I intentionally kept my hand away from my sword. “What, you think I’m scared? Look at your worthless fucking men. Look at how many of you stupid fucks are _dead_ because of one tiny elf broad. You have got to be the most incompetent, lazy, stupid, slovenly-“

I fell into a nice rhythm with the insults, but he cut me off with a roaring charge.

He was tired. He was overconfident. And he completely misjudged me.

I sidestepped his charge, drew my sword, and severed the leather straps holding his armor in place, visible under his raised arm due to his sloppy form. The heavy half-plate drooped to one side, pitching him off-balance. He slashed, once, in my general direction, but it was an easy parry. I took off his sword arm at the elbow, at the weak spot in his vambrace, and then whirled once to get the momentum to slice through his neck. His sword hit the floor half a heartbeat before his hand, and they’d both bounced once before his head clattered free of his helm to tumble across the floor.

I had the undivided attention of the remaining five templars. Their Knight-Captain’s body hadn’t settled to the floor before all five of them charged me.

There was one person in the room who could afford to turn their back to Kaiopi Surana, and it wasn’t any of _them_. The electricity that arced between them, causing them stiffen up mid-step and then fall to the floor in convulsions, was strong enough to stand every hair on my body on end from a good fifteen paces away.

When the last clatter of armor on the floor fell silent, I met Ophelia’s relieved, exhausted gaze from across the room. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she pitched to the floor.

“Opie!” I dashed across to her, taking the short route up the ladder and dropping to my knees to check her for a pulse and injuries. It seemed she was fine – besides the split scalp, of course – just exhausted. I lifted her from the floor, swung her over my shoulder, and strode out of the room like a conquering general.

I crossed the causeway, entered the woods, found my horse, and laid Ophelia across the saddle. I mounted, pulled her into my lap so I knew she wouldn’t tumble off the horse into the snow, and I got _the fuck out of there_.

We were in the woods, a mile from the coast, some fifteen miles out of Vigil’s Keep, before I felt comfortable enough to stop for the night. The light was dwindling fast, but if I could wake up Ophelia I would have a ready source of fire, so I wasn’t too worried about it.

I had her wrapped in my cloak, tucked into my bedroll, with a lean-to built around her before she started to stir. I was working hard on insulating the temporary structure against what was sure to be a frigid night. The horse was going to get a similar shelter once I was sure Ophelia was cared for. She slept fitfully while I labored.

She sat up wearily just as the darkness settled in. I had worked for a full hour building a shelter for the horse, and all I still needed was a quick fire and we were set.

“Got a light?” I asked as I heard her groan as she sat up.

“Twitch?” she asked warily.

“Got enough mana to start a quick fire for me, Opie?”

She pulled herself out of the lean-to and extended a cupped hand to me. The ball of fire that formed there was weak, but it was more than enough. I quickly had a long, low fire burning. It would be invisible on a cloudy, moonless night, even if Ophelia had been too tired to make the smokeless variety. I noted the absence of smoke with a smile.

It should have been a warning.

I turned to thank her and got a fist to the face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Ow,” I whined before I could catch myself. “What did you do that for?”

“You! Here! You _idiot_. You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“Oh, gee, Twitch,” I replied in a mocking falsetto. “You left your company and rode all the way here from _Redcliffe_ through a _blizzard_ when you heard I was on the run and you managed to arrive in time to save my ass from a company of templars. I’m so glad I have a Friend like you!”

She swung at me again, but she was tired and I was ready. I caught her wrist and turned it, spinning her around so her back was to me. I caught her other hand and held her at arm’s length. “What the fuck are you so mad about?”

She fought me for a second and then collapsed. I managed to catch her before she tumbled into the snow, flipping her knees up over one arm and cradling her against me. “Opie?”

“They found me. They figured it out and they found me and I can never go home. Twitch. I can’t _ever_ go home. I can’t see Felix or Padraig or Senna or baby Alois or Kyler or… or…” She was crying, then. I knew it was weeks of being on the run catching up to her, and I ducked under the lean-to and sat carefully down on the pile of furs serving as bedding. The fire running the length of the little camp was already warming the inside of the shelter, and my horse was making the now-familiar sounds of settling in for the night.

Ophelia tucked her head into the crook of my neck and started to genuinely weep.

“I thought they had me,” she whimpered between sobs. “I had killed so many and they just kept coming and I was cornered and it was just going to take one Smite and the Knight-Captain had his hand on his belt and I knew, I just knew, it was going to be Senna’s wedding all over again and there was nothing I could do and then… and then… oh, Void take you, what took you so long?”

The idea of walking in ten minutes later and finding Ophelia being gang-raped by Templars was something I had to very deliberately set out of my mind. If I could go back and kill them all again, maybe, _maybe_ , I could stand to think about it.

“There was a blizzard,” I told her instead. “I left the day I got your letter but it took a while to get to me in Redcliffe and there was three feet of snow to get through. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“You came to Amaranthine,” she sniffled, pulling her soggy, snotty, red-streaked face away from my collar, “from Redcliffe. In three feet of snow. To rescue me from templars?”

She was a hot mess. It was all I could do not to grin at her. Did she not do the same thing for Senna, for Shianni, for her family? Wasn’t that what we were? “Of course I did.”

“If you’re ever going to say it, Twitch, now is the time.” She tipped her chin up, then, resolute, and my mind stumbled to grasp her meaning.

“I told you so?” I offered, and her face went blank. “You really should have gone with me when I left Denerim.”

She briefly covered her face with her hands and then heavily dropped her forehead back onto my shoulder. “You’re an idiot, Twitch. I hope you know that.”

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

She sighed. “Thank you. I can never thank you enough.”

I pulled her closer against my chest. “I meant, you’re welcome to come with me. The Chargers could use another mage. You never have to thank me.”

She started laughing weakly. “You are an _idiot_.”

“I missed you, too.”

She ground the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Oh, I missed you. You stupid lunk of a shem.”

“You need sleep,” I told her, shifting us deeper into the lean-to. “The fire should keep us from dying, but you have about zero body fat and you’re going to be miserable if you don’t stay close to me.”

She was laughing again, an incredulous, head-shaking, breathy sort of laugh. “Right. Right. You’re right. Maker, I almost died the worst possible death at the hands of demented templars, to have _you_ of all people swoop down out of nowhere to save me, and now I have to crawl into a bed roll with you so I don’t freeze to death. Fuck my life.”

“Ah, come on, I bathed within the last week.”

“I hate you, Twitch. I hope you know that.”

I gave her another quick squeeze and then let her go. “I know you’re a horrible liar, Opie.”

With another laugh and shake of her head, she pulled away and began to work her way back into the mound of furs. Once she was settled I slid in beside her, and she wrapped her arms around my waist and laid her head on my chest.

“I did miss you, stupid shem.”

“I missed you too, Ophelia.”

“You shouldn’t have left Denerim.”

“You should have come with me.”

She didn’t answer. When I glanced down, I saw she was fast asleep. With a smile, I followed suit.


	18. The Twitch & Opie Road Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because, after everything, these two need one (rather long) chapter of tying up loose ends together.  
> ( I think I can almost hear [Elizabethx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliizabethx) screaming at the title from here )
> 
> Soon with ART by Grimmcake!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had all this condensed into about two paragraphs, but honestly, that just won't do.
> 
> In other news! The amazing Grimmcake has reopened commisions! For more information go [HERE](http://grimmcake.tumblr.com/post/148095459205/cakecommission). She is THE BEST. The absolute utter best. Also, she is a sapper named Cake, what other reason do you need? Make with the clickie! Then come back and read the new chapter. Go ahead, I can wait

Ophelia slept most of the next day. I peeled myself out of the bedroll and tended to the horse and the fire before walking a perimeter in the woods to set trip wires and hide our tracks. The snow was melting by midday, taking our tracks with it, and I had spent enough time with Skinner and her scouts to be confident in my woodcraft; we were safe enough for me to relax.

I woke Opie at dusk and encouraged her to eat. She wandered into the woods a short way to relieve herself after I told her what I’d done to secure our immediate area. I didn’t think we’d left any templars alive to follow us, and any who stumbled across the carnage in Vigil’s Keep would be immediately involved in piecing together what had happened and burning the bodies before they could rise. After all the insanity at the Wardens’ fortress, the Veil had to be thin enough to allow for corpse possession.

When Opie finished her meager dinner – dried meat and fruit, with a respectable hunk of bread – and immediately returned to sleep, I left her be.

If she was comfortable sleeping and leaving the watch to me, this close to Amaranthine, I was comfortable standing guard.

I dozed for a bit, just out of reach of illumination from our still-smokeless fire; I kept to the light sleep I’d learned when I first left Denerim and was responsible for my own watch every night. I rose with the dawn and was cleaned up and starting to pack up camp before Opie stumbled, blinking, out of the lean-to.

“Did you not sleep?” she asked once she returned from a prolonged stint in the woods. Her face was rosy from being scrubbed with snow and she was walking more steadily than the day before. I handed her breakfast – some oats and fruit I’d heated over the remains of the fire, with a weak mug of tea – and she seemed torn between devouring it and savoring every mouthful.

“I dozed,” I answered with a shrug. “I was on my own on the road for long enough, I can keep watch and nap simultaneously. It’s not a deep sleep, but it’ll keep me going.”

“Maker,” she breathed between bites. “I spent only a few weeks on the road by myself, and I felt like I didn’t sleep once.”

“You were operating under slightly different circumstances,” I countered, trying to keep my templar references to a minimum. “I didn’t have reason to think I was being followed.”

“Even now?” she asked, side-eying the woods while she sipped some tea.

“Even now. We didn’t leave anyone alive to follow us. Our immediate tracks were lost in the road. I figure the absolute best anyone could do would still put them a minimum of three days behind us.”

“Or one day behind us, now,” Opie corrected.

“Best case, we still have a full day head start,” I reassured her. “Once you’re settled, we’ll load up the horse and add to that lead. It will be easier, with two.

She was nodding, looking around a bit aimlessly. “I’d never travelled on my own before,” she said, in a faraway tone to match her unfocused gaze. “I lived in Denerim until... _they_ took me to the Circle. I lived in Kinloch until Anders and I escaped. Anders took me to Solona and Duncan before leaving. Solona and Duncan took me to Lothering, where Duncan paid merchants to take me to Denerim. That first night on the road, when I left Denerim in full flight, I realized I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know how to camp, how to hunt, how to hide my tracks. I kept to game trails and local roads when I could, hoping it would hide my trail, but I couldn’t even determine how far _they_ were behind me, how many there were, anything.”

“I will protect you,” I told her gently, and her eyes snapped to mine. “I’ve learned a lot since I left, I will teach you what I know. You won’t ever be in that position again.”

She closed her eyes softly and nodded. “You’re right. I won’t.”

It took us twice as long as it needed to, to get moving that morning, because Opie insisted on doing everything. “If we’ve got a one-day lead, we can spend a little time teaching me not to be a liability. You talk, I’ll do.”

So I clasped my hands behind my back and I described how the lean-to could be brought down to minimize snow and moisture on the inside. I _described_ how to roll up the bedding, how to hide the fire, how to pack the horse. More than once I wanted to reach out and _show_ her, but she stilled me with a murderous glare and I put my hands back behind my back and used words instead.

When the time came to leave, though, I helped her onto the horse and stood my ground.

“The horse will last longer if I lead and you ride,” I told her when she started to argue. “If we’re found, you run. Period. You’ll likely lead them away, saving me regardless. I can make my way on my own.”

“I’m not abandoning you,” she insisted, furious.

“You wouldn’t be,” I countered. “You’d be choosing your own ground to make a stand. Take the horse. Run. Figure out where you want to stand and fight. Wreck their fucking faces. Then we’ll meet up. I’ll be able to follow your trail, and you’ll know to backtrack to find me.”

“Oh,” she uttered, mollified. “Because... if they fall upon us suddenly it will likely be because the terrain gives them an advantage.”

“If they’re smart,” I agreed with a smile. “And they will expect me to shield you. They won’t expect us to immediately split.”

“But they might kill you before following me.”

I shrugged. “I can always shout for them to save me, if it makes you feel better. I can pretend to be enthralled or captive or something; might give me a moment's reprieve.”

She laughed and I tugged the horse into motion. "If that's your idea of planning, I can see how you've gone and scarred up your face."

"That had nothing to do with planning," I countered. 

"No? How'd you get it?"

"Squirrels," I answered immediately. "Demon-possessed squirrels. A whole forest of them."

Opie tipped her head back and laughed. "If you're going to lie, at least make it plausible."

"No! No, seriously! A possessed squirrel leaped out of a tree and-"

She was laughing too hard to hear me, and I decided it was worth being thought a liar if it made her laugh. 

All our planning ended up for naught. We avoided the main road, taking logging trails and local paths to hide our footsteps in the traffic of the natives. We left Amaranthine without encountering any templars. I didn’t know if Opie had merely cut that big of a dent in them, or if they were all looking for us elsewhere; the signs were still posted and many of them had increased the bounty for information. There was no mention of me, though, and nobody that we passed seemed to look twice at the woman on the horse behind me. I was simply a man-at-arms escorting his lady, and we were unremarked upon.

“We should talk about where we’re headed,” Opie suggested the first night we were camped outside the arling of Amaranthine.

“Denerim,” I answered immediately.

“What? No. I can’t go back to Denerim.”

“Why?”

“I have family there. I can’t risk them. If the templars thought for one minute they were sheltering me-“

“They already sheltered you. For years. We need to make sure they’re okay. I can understand not wanting to stay there, but we owe Gorim some money and everyone will sleep better knowing you’re fine. Don’t tell me you and I can’t sneak through Denerim unnoticed.”

She was prepared to argue when I dropped that last sentence on her, and her jaw snapped shut. “Stealth. Of course you’re suggesting stealth.”

“The templars know you’re not coming back to Denerim,” I told her gently. “They’ll be looking for mages, sure. But they won’t be looking for me. And they won’t be looking for _you_.”

“They all know my likeness,” she protested, weakly.

“We could dye your hair or cut it or something. There are a hundred ways we can do this, Opie. You’ll be better for it. And there’s no way they’ll take you in the street, not with your cousin being the Bann and our relationships with the Chantry. You’re a mage, not a maleficar, and there’s no Circle to drag you back to. They’d have to kill you, and we won’t give them that chance.”

“If I moved back, they’d figure out a way to knife me in the alienage some night,” she said, sadly.

“And Senna would purge the city and everyone would lose,” I agreed, and she chuckled. “So we’ll go in, pay Gorim, smooch your niece and nephews, tousle Brue’s boys’ hair, and get the fuck out.”

“Okay,” she agreed, and her smile started to come back. “Okay.”

 

*

 

It was almost a joke, sneaking into Denerim. We stopped a courier heading into the city, gave him a silver, and told him how to find Hank. “Tell him to pick up the twitchy pearl.”

“Tell him to what?” the courier asked, trying to stifle a grin.

“You heard me. The twitchy pearl. He needs to pick it up.”

“A silver for that? It’s a deal.”

As the courier trotted into town, Ophelia started laughing. “I never realized that could be an innuendo before.”

“And to think it was Natalia’s phrase.” I grinned. Ophelia laughed harder.

Maker, it would good to hear her laugh again.

We circled around town to the spot on the wall the arch demon had taken a chunk out of – they’d repaired it, finally, but you could still see the stonework was new – and then put our backs to the city and paced out into the woods.

“Found it,” Opie called maybe half an hour of searching later. I trotted over to find her perched atop a boulder that was almost perfectly round, the horse contentedly munching on the delicate spring growth shooting up around its base. We found the south side – marked by a patch of lichen where the sunlight never quite reached – and walked forty paces.

It was poorly marked – because it needed to be – but the spot fit Natalia’s description. We’d all been taught this entrance to the city – it was to be used for emergencies only – and we all knew the phrase that spoke of its use: pick up the pearl.

There were three doors in the alley outside The Pearl. One went into the brothel. One led into a building that contained an entrance to one of the tunnels. The third, the one I’d never used, opened onto a warren of passageways that were marked with a series of symbols. Natalia had apparently marked it during her troubled youth, long before she was Denerim’s Red Jenny. Eventually it led to a long, straight, damp, spider infested tunnel that opened out right at this spot.

There was an hour of daylight left when a tapping emerged from a depression in the soil to Ophelia’s left. We hurried over and swept aside a decade of fallen leaves and detritus to find a perfectly round metal slab, just big enough to cover the top of a ladder. I knelt and tapped out my signature. After a moment, Hank’s signature echoed dully from behind the metal, followed by a muted, “how the fuck do you open this thing?”

There was no purchase on my side, so I leaned over and called, “I can’t help you, man.”

There were some muffled bangs, a long and creative string of curses, and then the metal spun a quarter-turn and slid aside. Hank was covered in flecks of rust and spider webs, but he was grinning to beat the band. “Andrate’s asshole, man, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“I’ve got good news,” I answered.

“Besides that you’re here?”

“Hi Hank,” Opie called from behind me. Hank’s face went blank and then lit up like sunrise.

“Opie! Opie, you’re alive? Sweet blessed Maker, we thought the worst!” Hank pulled himself off the ladder and grabbed the laughing elf, pulling her into a rough embrace. He looked close to tears. “You’re okay. Thank the Maker, you’re okay.”

“I’m okay. I got cornered in Amaranthine but I held them off until Twitch got there.”

Hank set Opie down, pressed a rough kiss to her forehead, and then spun around and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me roughly.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. I clapped him on the arm as he let go, and he led Opie into the tunnel while I lightly tied the horse to a tree near the landmark boulder. There weren’t predators this close to the city, and nobody had much reason to be in the woods over here, but I wanted him to be able to get away in the worst case scenario. We took all of our gear with us, though.

I was optimistic. I wasn’t stupid.

The tunnel was a tight squeeze, but it served its purpose. Hank had cleared most of the spider webs out of the tunnel with his face, so our walk was largely uneventful. We emerged into the alley behind the Pearl, and it felt overwhelmingly like coming home.

We were only in the alley long enough to secure one door behind us and open the next. We didn’t go into the Pearl – there were very likely to be templars in the brothel, after all – but entered the other door in the alley and descended immediately into the tunnel.

We emerged into the safe house that was a favorite haunt of Sera, and I remembered aloud that she was in Val Royeaux now.

“Little twerp cut and ran,” Hank confirmed. “Didn’t hear from her for months, and then found out she’d become the new Jenny.”

“Can’t be so little anymore,” I countered.

“Probably why she left,” Hank agreed. “We all still saw her as a kid.”

The house was empty, but secured – Hank had been there already that night – and Opie and I set about securing the top floor as our base of operations for the next day or two. The roof was accessible, there was the tunnel out in the basement, there were windows on the second floor with ropes handy, and doors at the front, back and sides. From the third floor we would be able to see _them_ coming and get out if we needed to.

Not that anybody knew about this house outside the Jennies. Natalia’s old home had become the public front, with enough foot traffic in and out to keep attention. This house was an old standby, rarely used; with Ophelia here, there wouldn’t even be smoke in the chimney to give us away.

“Safe to guess you won’t be here long?” Hank asked, sadly, as he watched us work.

Opie shook her head. “It’s not safe for me to be here, Hank. You know that. I only came back because Twitch talked me into it.”

“So just long enough to get affairs in order?”

“More or less.”

“What can I do?”

“You did it, man,” I said, stepping over to put a hand on his shoulder. He mirrored the gesture. “You got us in. We want to be able to keep in contact with you, so best you don’t get linked to me and Opie.”

Hank nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll be sure I’m seen elsewhere. And I’ll sneak Brue and the boys up here, keep you away from his house.”

“That would be great, Hank, thank you,” Ophelia said with a dazzling sort of smile.

We discussed timing and priorities for a bit, and then Hank checked every door and window on the way out, leaving through the tunnel in case he’d been followed. Ophelia knelt at the hearth to light a fire, while I made sure the light it created wouldn’t show through the windows and indicate the house was occupied. A knock on the door a short while later caused a near panic until Brue’s tap echoed softly through the second floor of the house.

I went down a flight to find Brue perched on a balcony in the dark, a basket over one arm and a shit-eating grin on his face. He was covered in the biggest cloak I’d ever seen, and was likely invisible on this moonless night.

“You kids hungry?” he asked.

“I thought you hated jumping around on rooftops at night,” I laughed once I’d shuttered the window behind him.

“I do. I was willing to make an exception for you. Where’s my Opie?”

“Upstairs,” I laughed, and the big man darted for the third floor.

I followed at a slower pace, fighting desperately against the sense that I’d come home. Opie couldn’t stay, and I’d told Bull I’d be back. If this was a homecoming, it was only a visit.

Five heavy footfalls on the ceiling above me followed by Ophelia’s delighted squeal brought another grin to my face, and I walked upstairs to get a meal put together while Brue tried to squeeze the life out of Opie.

Brue had brought almost exactly as much food as we’d need for three days. There was a bit more bread and oats than that, but arguably that would serve us on our first morning on the road. Fruit that was fresh was a pleasant change, and I pulled out what would spoil the fastest – half a roast chicken – for Ophelia and I.

“Did you want in on this, Brue?” I asked, interrupting their reunion.

“Nah, the boys and I already ate. You going to come by? See the boys?”

“As long as it can be done safely,” Ophelia agreed. “Hank suggested you bring them here.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Brue agreed quickly. “Little Will needs to meet Twitchy over here.”

“I can’t wait,” I answered honestly.

Brue didn’t stay long – the boys were both young yet, and likely to waken – but we were all smiling when he dropped out of the second story window with his basket and cloak.

There were beds in the safe house, and blankets in a chest we’d gotten runed to keep fresh and bug-free. After days on the road together, it was second nature for Opie to crawl in beside me when I laid down. I flipped the end of the blanket over her and smiled as she was immediately asleep. I followed her lead, confident that our Friends were watching the house.

 

*

 

Kyler’s baby girl, Alois, was sitting up already when I met her. Alois’ brother Felix was old enough that the family was confident he wouldn’t be a mage like his aunt, which was a relief for the whole Tabris clan. Everyone accepted Opie, of course, but now was not a good time to be a mage in Thedas. Padraig was just the right age to alternate between being hilarious and unbearably obnoxious.

Valora and Senna had blossomed into holy terrors in the years since I’d left, with Valora acting as the new Jenny in Denerim and Senna going on nightly assassination missions until Denerim had been considered unsafe by what was left of the Templar Order. There were reports of skirmishes in the bannorn, and Orlais was inching towards all-out civil war; Arl Finn was desperate to keep order in Denerim and declared that anyone appearing to be a mage _or_ a templar would be thrown out of town.

The only exception to that rule was the Tranquil proprietor of the Wonders of Thedas. He could look however he liked.

There were definitely still templars in the city, only now they were just as careful about not attracting notice as the mages were. They were concerned less about following the law, however, and more about whoever kept sticking a blade into templars at night.

I learned all of this from Gil while Ophelia was passed from woman to woman in the living room of what had long been her home. Kyler kept pushing in and stealing her sister from whoever else was currently hugging her, which caused as much laughter as complaint.

Opie didn’t have much by way of stuff, and the critically important things had gone with her when she’d fled. Her parents’ belongings were to be left for Kyler’s children, as was all of the family’s meager wealth. While she sorted through what she wanted to take, I exchanged pleasantries with her family and then was taken outside by Gil.

“We’re just elves from an alienage,” he told me, keeping his voice low and checking continually for sign of the women overhearing. “I can’t send her money like you’ve been doing for Brue. I don’t have any way to help her. If we didn’t have Senna and Valora-“

“I got this one,” I assured him softly. “I have a solid job with the Chargers. I’m going to try to get her to sign on with them, too. We’ve got a mage already, so there’d be no pressure. It’s a safe group, well led, protective of its own.”

Gil sighed, slumping as if the worry was the only thing keeping him upright. “I don’t know if she’ll take to being indebted to a shemlen,” he said, and then wearily looked up to meet my eyes. “I know I sure don’t like it.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Gil.”

“Oh, but I do, Twitch. I do. She and I have never been particularly close, but that doesn’t make her any less my sister. Ties of family and clan might not be the same in the alienage as they are out in the Dalish, but they’re still all we’ve got. She blew in here like a dragon to save her cousins, and never asked for one thing in return. All she’s done is bring prosperity to the alienage, to her family... she drew the attention of the Wardens, helped Shianni become the Bann, gave us an ally in the Arl of Amaranthine and then helped us replace the Arl of Denerim. And what thanks did she get?”

I had no answer for him. Likely, Ophelia had been sold out by another resident of the alienage. Someone who had benefitted from her connections had summarily betrayed her. There was no way Ophelia didn’t know that. Maker, it had to burn.

“She’ll survive, Gil. She’ll write. Maybe when this all boils over, she’ll be able to come back and your children can meet her. The whole world’s gone mad, not just your family; she knows not to take it personally.”

“She’s a better person than I,” he said, shaking his head. “Thank you.”

“You’re... welcome?”

 “She’s always... _we’ve_ always been people to you. You look at my children and see children, not knife-eared brats. When her own people betrayed her, you found her, you saved her, you brought her back to her family. Whatever happens from here on... you always have a home here.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you all are the closest thing I’ve got to family,” I told him. “I’m just glad I was able to help.”

Gil slapped me on my back, I clapped him in the shoulder, and we walked back inside.

Ophelia quirked an eyebrow at me from over Shianni’s shoulder as we reentered. I shook my head slightly with a smile. She nodded and turned her attention back to her family.

She stayed the whole day; I snuck out while she had a lapful of a half-asleep Padraig just after the noon meal and went looking for Gorim.

“There’s a face I never expected to have grace my stall,” he said, laughing.

Durin stood and gruffly shook my hand. “Never doubted you for a minute,” the more taciturn dwarf confided.

“Thanks, Durin,” I laughed. “Let it never be said I ran from a debt.”

“So you heard?” Gorim asked softly as I drew near and he started rifling through old bills of sale.

“I got a letter saying you were told I was good for the money. I’d hate to make that person a liar, so here I am.”

Gorim nodded, and then drew out the bill.

Opie’s idea of a fortune was fifty silver. I handed Gorim a full gold.

He frowned and then started digging into his pocket for a key to his lockbox.

“Whatever you suggested that she take that she refused before,” I told him, and my tone stopped him in place, reaching for the lockbox with key in hand, “she’ll take now. She’s going to need it.”

Gorim’s face broke into a relieved smile. “You’ve heard?”

“You could say that,” I granted, and then winked.

Gorim dropped onto his stool. “Oh, that’s the best news I could have asked for. I can easily spend the other half of this gold on her, just hold on.”

Gorim busied himself putting together a box of goods Opie could use on the road, while Durin and I chatted and watched. “Saddle bag or backpack?” Gorim asked, pausing with one in either hand.

“Backpack,” I answered immediately. If anyone was watching, better they not know I had access to a horse. And, worst case, the horse was gone and we’d need to pack it anyways. The pack Gorim gave me was lighter but bigger than the one Opie had been using, and I took it with a handshake and an agreement to come back the next time I was in Denerim.

“Not until the current trouble is over,” I told him.

“Denerim is looking to be safer than most points west,” Gorim countered carefully.

I tried not to react, but Gorim wasn’t usually the type to dig for information. Maker, I’d hate to have to kill him.

“Oh?” I laughed. “Did Warden Amell come back through while I wasn’t looking?”

Durin laughed while Gorim shook his head. “That she hasn’t.”

“I’ll follow her lead, then,” I said, and shook hands with Durin and waved goodbye to them both.

If Gorim was being leaned on by the templars, he would verify what they already suspected – that Ophelia was looking for Solona. That would send them all towards Soldier’s Peak, while Opie and I dropped south to Redcliffe to pick up the Chargers’ trail.

There would be world peace before a pack of templars broke into Soldier’s Peak. I felt no remorse for sending the hypothetical mage-hunters in Solona’s direction.

I made my way back to the safe house, dropped off Opie’s new gear, and then went back to the alienage to collect the mage it belonged to. I found her asleep in a pile with her nephews, holding her tiny niece to her chest, a beatific smile on her face.

“Time to go?” Kyler asked softly.

“She’ll never forgive herself if someone tries to hurt her and her family is caught in the crossfire,” I answered sadly.

“No, you’re right. Are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Most likely,” I answered. “I think we have all her loose ends tied up.”

“Thank you for this,” Kyler whispered, stepping between me and her sleeping sister to wrap me in a tentative hug. “She wouldn’t have come back on her own.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” I assured her, returning the hug a bit awkwardly.

“We’ll grab the kids. You can probably move her without waking her.”

We matched action to words, with Felix being roused, Gil lifting Padraig and Kyler carefully freeing Alois from Ophelia’s sleeping form. I scooped Opie up as she began to rouse, turning her so she was curled against my chest. She muttered something – incomprehensible, but I think elvish – and Kyler kissed her sister’s cheek with a small smile.

Gil opened doors for me to the tunnel hidden in the basement, and I carried Ophelia out of their home.

The door snapped shut behind me and I was plunged into darkness. I never thought to grab a torch if I had Opie with me. Once I got to the bottom of the first staircase, though, the tunnel was long and straight, and I wore stout shoes. I strode through the darkness until I kicked the first step and then paused, shifted Opie, and started the long ascent. I managed to get out of the tunnel, across town, and into the safe house without drawing any attention. I paused in the doorway for a long time, making sure no one came around the corner behind me, but it seemed I wasn’t followed.

I put Ophelia to bed, double-checked the security of the house, and then laid down beside her, still protected by our Friends.

 

*

 

Brue, Hank, and the boys woke us up the next morning. I leapt out of bed when I heard the first knock on the door, and then breathed a sigh of relief when the familiar signatures followed. They brought breakfast, and enough food to see us a week down the road.

The boys were younger than Felix but older than Alois – I was worthless at judging the relative age of children – but they warmed quickly to me. Brue didn’t have to thank me again, but I knew he credited my monetary help with the boys’ relative health and happiness.

They didn’t stay long, not wanting to blow our cover after such an uneventful visit, and we left town shortly after saying our goodbyes.

Opie and I didn’t speak at all that morning. We didn’t discuss how she’d gotten back to the safehouse the night before, what I’d done when I’d left the afternoon before, or even comment on the weather. We slipped out the manhole outside of town, found the horse a short distance away from where I’d tied him, loose but lingering, and tied our bundles to his withers without a word. I gave Opie a silent hand up onto the horse’s back, and then led her away from Denerim.

Neither one of us thought to ever return. It was a sobering idea, and kept us both silent for the better part of three days. Even after, we spoke little. Ophelia reached for me often, putting a hand to my elbow or shoulder, and I eventually came to understand she was preparing to say goodbye to me, as well.

Bull and the Chargers weren’t in Redcliffe when we arrived, but they had been back and forth for some time, bringing mages to town and completing bounties off the Chanters’ board. They had taken a bounty letter for some bandits west of Lake Calenhad, and were expected to head north to West Hill to collect once they’d cleared the road.

Ophelia was a little more talkative on the road once we were past the turn for Lothering, and she reminisced about Warden Commander Duncan and Solona Amell. Lake Calenhad seemed to depress her, and any mention of Solona always buoyed her spirits, so I did what I could to keep her telling stories about her best friend.

We found the Chargers exactly where we’d expected to, on the road leading north towards West Hill, collecting themselves for a day after wiping out a fairly extensive encampment of bandits.

 “Look what the cat dragged in!” The Chief bellowed, laughing, as we rode into their camp. “So this is the _personal matter_ you needed a _short time away_ for?”

Ophelia swung down off the horse and walked right up to the Qunari mercenary.

“My name is Kaiopi Surana,” she announced softly. The camp fell silent as everyone turned to listen. “With First Enchanter Irving dead and Solona Amell missing, I am the most powerful mage remaining in Ferelden. My hiding place in Denerim was discovered and Twitch, who fought at my side in the years after the Blight, managed to find me just in time to save me from an overwhelming number of very persistent templars. I want to make something abundantly clear.” She took another step forward. The Iron Bull’s eyebrows rose to his hairline as he looked down at the bedraggled, saddle-sore, road-weary mage before him. “I owe Twitch exactly nothing. He did for me what he would do for anyone, what _I_ would do for _him_ and what I _hope_ any of _you_ would do for any other of your number. I will not be guilted, cajoled, cowed, or blackmailed into your organization. I don’t owe _Twitch_ anything, I owe you _less_ than nothing. Do you understand me?”

“I understand you, ser,” Bull answered, dazedly.

“How wonderful,” she said, deflating slightly. “Should I ask whether you intend to attempt to shackle me, ox man?”

The corner of the Iron Bull’s mouth quirked into an almost-smile. “It’s hard to get information out of someone whose mouth is sewn shut, knife-ear.”

Ophelia snorted a laugh. “Information, you can have. Get me a bed, something hot to eat, and the promise of a bath and I’ll tell you anything.”

 

*

 

Ophelia and most of the Chargers got along famously. She and Skinner bonded over alienage stories that could freeze the blood of lesser men. Dalish insisted she was not a mage, but the conversation she and Opie had about her bow and Opie’s bracers was impossible for anyone else present to follow. The group of sappers clamored around her for a discussion of the physics of explosions, which also was chilling in its brutal simplicity. Bull offered her information about the wide world – Seheron, Nevarra, and the Free Marches mostly, but with anecdotes about Tevinter and the Free Marches – in exchange for details about Solona Amell, the politics of Denerim, and just what the fuck were the Jennies all about.

We were in a roadside inn three days later, and the little elf mage the Chargers had immediately agreed to call _Opie_ disappeared into a hot spring for nearly five hours. She emerged with a satisfied, stupid sort of smile on her face and comically wrinkled fingertips.

“Look at this raisin,” I laughed. She leaned against my shoulder and sighed contentedly.

“This seems an appropriate way for you to remember me,” she asserted.

“Excuse me?”

She chuckled and stepped away so she could turn and face me. “Do you remember little Sera?”

“Of course I do.”

“She’s in Val Royeaux. We hear she’s the Jenny there now.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

Ophelia nodded. “Nobody would expect me to head for Val Royeaux, especially if they knew anything about Sera’s dislike of magic. We’ve worked together for long enough, though, I’m sure she’ll give me shelter while I figure out my next move. I might be able to pick up Fiona’s trail there, and get in touch with the rebel mages…”

“Don’t,” I said immediately.

“What? Why?”

“I’ve got a terrible feeling about this whole thing,” I said, shaking my head. “I just… I just know you need to stay away from the mage/templar war.”

She looked at me for a solid minute, blinking a couple of times before cocking her head. “You made yourself forget, didn’t you?”

My first impulse was to deny, but something swirled to life in the back of my head. After a long internal battle, the voice that said _don't lie to Opie_ won out. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

She nodded slowly. “Do you remember telling me to stay away from Kirkwall?”

I shook my head, no, and she nodded again. Then, with a brisk pat to my wrist reminiscent of Natalia, she turned and walked away.

“Opie?”

She kept walking. “Not like this, Twitch. Not here, not now, and not like this.”

The woman made no sense. “Opie?”

She shook her head again and disappeared around a corner. I heard a door latch click shut.

The next morning, she was gone.

I didn’t know it at the time, but a significant chapter in my life had just ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really liking Twitch's breaking of the fourth wall. In my head, he's telling this whole story to Gwen in the 'Rest over pints of beer (or nine).


	19. Say Hello to Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Transition Chapter. 
> 
> Lets get some Temple of the Dog in here.  
>  _you better seek out another road, because this one has ended abrupt_  
>  _say hello to Hellen, Hellen, Hellen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, there are two new WIPs in this series by my dear friends and fellow authors.  
> You've got [Tempie's story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6532927/chapters/14945524) from Aelie and [Tailor's tale](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7442689/chapters/16909222) from Coffeeguru. These ARE going to be considered canon for the Keep to the Stars universe and there's a lot to love!

Everything went downhill after Opie left.

The Iron Bull kept finding mages, and their stories kept us as informed about the mage/Templar war and the breakout of the Orlesian civil war that summer. We crossed the Frostbacks that autumn, escorting a party of mages back to their families, and got the news as we passed neared Jader that the Divine had sent a team to Kirkwall to try to find Garrett Hawke. That same team had been searching for Solona Amell since the Nevarran Accord was nullified; the Hero of Ferelden had vanished without a trace.

One of the members of the team knew the way to Soldier’s Peak, and met with the Wardens there. There was no sign of Solona and no information about her whereabouts forthcoming. What they wanted Amell and Hawke for was nebulous at best.

As we crossed Orlais and the year edged toward winter, word began to spread of a Conclave to be held in the Frostbacks, in the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes in the mountains above Haven. Leaders from all sides of the Chantry conflict were invited: Divine Justinia, herself, would chair the proceedings. Knight-Commanders from around Thedas were expected to attend, as were former First Enchanters of the various circles and the new leaders of the numerous apostate factions.

The Conclave was set for the third week of Wintermarch.

The bare mention of it drove the hair up on the back of my neck and sent a surge of goosebumps down my limbs. My subconscious bore no love for the Divine’s Conclave.

We were Chargers, though, and had work to do. Bull had a lead on a mage who’d run into some trouble with some weird-ass faction of ‘Vints, and this mage’s family was paying _very_ good money for their return. We tracked the mage – middle aged human by the name of Gustav – into a beehive of trouble.

The Vints – calling themselves _Venatori_ – were apparently collecting Giants in the Orlesian countryside. We cornered them in the shadow of the Frostbacks, with Skinner leading a small team to pilfer Gustav out from under their noses and the rest of us meeting them head-on.

Maker, it was a _fight_. We hadn’t been in an honest-to-god _scrum_ in longer than I cared to think. The late afternoon was blacked by smoke, indistinguishable from the overcast sky. Venatori flew at us chaotically… but we were Chargers. We own the chaos. The Chief had just taken a running leap off the crumbled remains of a stone wall and launched axe-first into the face of a giant when the world exploded.

Well, the _sky_ exploded. The clouds ripped apart to reveal a swirling green _hole in the sky_. It glowed a malevolent, sickly sort of green. Even from that distance, strings of green could be seen flowing away the center of the maelstrom in the sky, darting out in all directions towards the ground.

The soot was lifted off the ground as the shockwave passed, otherwise unnoticed. That we even got _that_ much was unsettling; the explosion looked to be way off to the southeast, over the Frostbacks…

…roughly where that Conclave was being held.

I couldn’t say how, but I knew, _knew_ , right down to my bones, the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been wiped off the map. I’d written to Opie in Val Royeaux but not heard anything back yet to verify she’d arrived. I tried to shake off the fear that she’d gone with the rebel mages after all.

She wouldn’t have been there. Couldn’t have been. It was Templar central, she wouldn’t have gone within ten leagues of that place.

Maker, let her not have been within ten leagues of that place.

“Chargers!” The Chief’s bellow broke through the shock, smoke, and chaos. “Clean up and clear out. There’s money on the horizon.”

There weren’t many Venatori left standing. Some few had fallen prone, faces to the explosion, chanting or some shit. Krem was the first to openly disrespect their show of faith, beheading one of the kneeling Venatori. If our ‘Vint Lieutenant could do it, the rest of us would willingly follow suit.

We were on the move, then, heading back north to drop off Gustav in Lydes and taking the road east to cross the Frostbacks near Orzammar. As we neared Jader we learned the Conclave had been destroyed by some Qunari merc – half the people we met honestly thought it was Bull who’d done it. They were glad we were in Jader, and not running around southern Ferelden. Whoever this merc was, they were being called the Herald of Andraste for some favor on their hand.

“Wait, so Andraste’s Herald blew up the Conclave?” Krem repeated, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

“Shit makes no sense,” the merchant we were chatting up agreed. “First, word is the merc is the only survivor, and has a hand that links up to the hole in the sky. Then, word is the merc died after all. THEN word comes that the thing on the merc’s hand is a sign of Andraste’s favor. Nobody knows what to think. They’re calling it the Breach, and they say it’s spewing out demons faster than anybody can kill them.”

“They? Who’s calling it the Breach?”

“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand to the late Divine Justinia. She’s recalled the Inquisition, to put a stop to the mage/Templar madness. It’s that Inquisition that’s spreading the misinformation about the merc who killed the Divine.”

“It looks less… angry,” Dalish said, staring at the spinning rift in the sky, just barely visible on the southern horizon. We were all constantly finding ourselves staring at it. It was impossible to keep one’s eyes off it for any stretch of time.

“They said the merc did that, too. Woke up and calmed the Breach. Somehow that convinced Seeker Cassandra that the merc was innocent. Shit’s beyond me.”

This shit was beyond everyone. We kept going into Ferelden, although it seemed to most of us that the Boss didn’t have a job he was following or even a lead for one. We were strictly gathering information.

Information rarely paid, but we’d all learned long ago to trust the Chief’s instincts. The coffers were still fat; none of us were in any danger of missing a paycheck, much less a meal.

The news in Ferelden was something else entirely.

“The Herald put a complete stop to the infighting in the Hinterlands,” we heard from a starry-eyed merchant in the Bannorn. “She’s closing the rifts in the air, killing the demons. She was sent by the Maker to save us.”

“Woah,” Siren breathed as Bull followed the thread of the story. “They were ready to string that merc up in Jader, and here she’s our fucking savior?”

“I don’t know whether to make a joke about the gullibility of Fereldans or the cynicism of Orlesians,” Rocky chuckled.

“Stupid shems, all of them,” Skinner grunted, and half the column erupted into laughter.

Bull’s head appeared, shoulders above anyone else, glaring back towards us, and we quickly fell silent. He bent his head again to the merchant and a few stifled giggles were quickly shushed.

We resumed our march down the road a few minutes later, and got no news from the Chief until we stopped that night.

“Krem,” he called as dinner was being cleaned up. “You need to make a run down to Haven, take a look around this Inquisition, and get eyes on the Herald. Give her – seems to be the consensus, it’s a _her_ – the invitation to come meet the Chargers, see what we’re about.”

“You want us to get hired on by this Inquisition?” Siren asked, a bit dubiously.

“Everything I’ve heard – both on the road and from the messages my sources send – says this _Herald_ is sealing up the rifts that the Breach spawned. She’s killing demons. And she seems to be leaving stability in her wake. Trade’s opened up in the Hinterlands again, and the open warfare is mostly calmed. Word from Haven is they’re looking for allies to seal up the Breach. Do any of you think that’s not a good cause?”

Silence greeted his question, and he shrugged. “If nothing else, maybe Krem de la Creme here can lure her out and we can all meet this Herald. Story for the grandkids, neh?”

Krem was tasked with picking out a team – with the rifts spawning around the Breach, travel alone was tantamount to suicide – while everyone else went with the Chief and set up an ambush for the Venatori the Chief said were working in the Storm Coast. None of the rest of us had heard any Venatori mentioned by any of the travelers we’d come across on the road, but every Charger knew the Chief was Ben’Hassrath by this point, so nobody questioned the lead.

“Twitch. You in for the Haven run?”

I’d been warning people away from Haven for years, and yet when Krem asked I felt no trepidation. “Sure. Got your back, Krem.”

“Don’t I know it,” my Lieutenant chuckled. “Squirrel?” he called, walking away.

The next morning, I left the Chargers shoulder-to-shoulder with Krem. Squirrel and another scout named Daft ranged to our front and on either side of the road to look for rifts and warn us of impending demons.

“Daft?” I asked the wiry Fereldan when we stopped briefly to dig out rations at midday. “Rough name.”

The man – from Gwaren, I had heard previously – laughed. Krem had asked him to join us for his good nature and general extroversion. “My kid brother gave it to me, growing up. My Da would yell at me, say ‘you daft, boy?’ and my brother honestly thought it was my name. Made my Da realize he was too hard on me, and turned into a good joke. Reminds me of my brother, so I don’t mind it.”

There was something lurking in the story, and Squirrel put her finger on it before I could.

“Your brother,” she started.

“Lost him in the Blight,” Daft answered before she could ask.

“Daft it is, then,” Krem said with a nod.

Daft grinned at him. “Thanks.”

As the days passed and we got closer to Haven, the roads became progressively busier. We encountered more travelers that any of us had ever encountered on the roads before, a mix of men at arms, merchants and tradesmen all making their way to the fledgling Inquisition. They all had the same answer when asked why they’d decided to head for Haven.

“They’re going to fix the world. I’m going to help.”

It was so unlike what we’d been hearing in Orlais – a conflicted story of guilt and blame – that for a moment we all wondered aloud if it was the philosophical difference between the two nations that was causing it.

“More likely,” Daft countered, “these are people who’ve all seen first-hand the Herald’s work or the direct effects of it. Andraste’s bunions, just look at this road. Could you walk down a road like this in Orlais right now?”

Krem snorted. “Only with a force the size of the Chargers. The four of us would be press-ganged into service of the Grand Duke’s army if we sauntered down a road like this on the other side of the Frostbacks.”

The point was made clear when we got to Haven. There were soldiers with the heraldry we’d come to associate with the Inquisition on the road, but we presented no threat and received no challenge. The fortifications were all new – clearly built in the years after the Chantry got its hands on Haven but heavily altered and improved in the time since the Conclave – and barely contained a swarm of activity. Men were building trebuchets along a stockade wall that we encountered some distance inside the gate and causeway that took us past the lip of the lake.

A small army was training in the clearings being exposed by the men cutting lumber for the stockade and siege weapons. A herd of rams and druffalo were being tended to in some of the higher pastures, barely visible over the thatched roofs of the buildings in the little town.

We spent that first morning wandering around, listening to people. Daft settled in the tavern to trade stories and make friends. Squirrel wormed her way into every crack and crevice to find out how strong the fortifications really were, as well as what safeguards the Inquisition had against spies. She barely managed to escape being tossed out on her ear within the first hour when the Nightingale’s people caught wind of her. She was under careful scrutiny the rest of the time we spent in town.

Krem heard the Herald was expected back that afternoon – convenient timing we were all grateful for – and settled himself at the stockade gate to wait for her.

I went out into the soldiery and tried to get a feel for the Inquisition’s strength.

Their General – Commander Cullen, whose name rang a bell somewhere deep in my subconscious – was a former Templar, and was training his forces as such. It was a reasonable approach, given the Inquisition had been originally intended to put a stop to the mage/Templar infighting… men trained like Templars would do the most good against both factions.

I was trying to get a feel for their numbers and organization – it was difficult to count men who were constantly in motion, but Bull had taught us ways to get a solid estimate – when a Lieutenant suddenly appeared in my field of view.

She was short; the top of her head could maybe brush the bottom of my chin, if she was on tiptoe. And had a box to stand on. Her height made her seem rounder than she probably was, with the way the standardized armor fit her. She had blonde hair in a rough bob and blue eyes that managed to feel hard, like the cold glint of steel.

“You care to explain to me what exactly you’re doing?” she said, managing to phrase a perfectly reasonable question in tones that made me immediately want to start apologizing.

“Doing a rough count of your forces and watching how you’re organized,” I answered, as smoothly as I could. 

Her eyebrows lifted. She had the sort of posture and presence that let her loom over me, even though I had a foot of height on her. “I knew that. Didn’t think you’d admit to it. Are you going to admit to spying, as well?”

“Scouting,” I corrected her easily. “I’m part of a merc company that is interested in joining the Inquisition. Want to know what we’re getting into, first.”

She grunted and shook her head. “That elf who keeps antagonizing the Nightingale one of yours?”

“Squirrel,” I answered immediately. “Yes ser.”

I surprised a laugh out of her, a husky sort of sound that lifted years off her face. “Great name for her. Brownie just missed pulling her off the wall before she scampered up and over as if it was a ladder. We’re going to spend the next two weeks sanding the damn thing down to make sure nobody else can get a handhold and come over.”

“Then we’ve done you some good already,” I insisted, and she laughed again.

“Come on,” she ordered, although the smile took the edge off the command. “Already I don’t want to kill you, and that’s a dangerous trait in a man I just caught spying.”

“Where we going?” I asked, falling readily into step with her. An interview with an Inquisition Lieutenant would be a good addition to my report to the Chief.

“Somewhere I can keep an eye on you and verify your story,” she answered. “You got a name as good as Squirrel’s?”

“Twitch,” I answered, and she tipped her head back and roared with laughter, long and loud.

“I’m Killeen,” she said as she wiped the tears out of her eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Killeen,” I said, and meant it. “My Lieutenant is by the gate, waiting for your Herald to come back.”

The Herald beat us to the gate.

She was the first female Qunari I’d seen; Bull had told me once that the Qun didn’t support female warriors, when I asked why we only ever saw males when we encountered them as Tal’Vashoth or the rare Vashoth merc. But here she was: female, horns, a head taller than Krem. She had her black hair in tight braids down her scalp, curving smoothly around the contours of the white horns that almost met behind her skull. There was a purple tone to her skin that I hadn’t seen before, and when I approached Krem to fall into place a step behind him to his left, I saw her eyes were a vivid blue that made her skin seem even more exotic.

She also had a staff strapped to her back, over a long leather coat that brushed her ankles and covered the overlapping cloth armor you only saw on mages.

The word _saarebas_ drifted through my head, and I risked a glance at her mouth; not sewn shut, no evidence it ever had been. She must be Vashoth, then, born free of the Qun.

I wasn’t sure how the Chief would take that. I knew he had a definite enmity for Tal’Vashoth, but the Vashoth were a topic I’d never heard him talk about.

“Storm Coast, huh?” she was saying to Krem, rubbing her chin. “Normally I’d say you could shove that right up your ass – we’ve got Cullen building an army, why do I need mercs? But I was heading up there anyways, so it’s a diversion of a few hours rather than weeks. Chargers, you said? Bull’s Chargers?”

“Yes ser. Best Mercenary company in Orlais. We’ve got references.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” she sighed, although there was a laugh hidden in the sound. “Fisher still bitches about the way it all went down when Bull left. It’s one of his favorite stories.”

Before Krem had a chance to follow up on that – and the line of his jaw told me he _definitely wanted to_ – the Herald tipped her jaw towards the town beyond the gate. “We’ve got maps inside. You can show me generally where I’m to meet your boss and then I’ll give you a head start. I should make you wait until after I leave, but I don’t think the Chargers are stupid enough to ride into Haven and invite me into an ambush.”

“No, ser, we’d make sure nobody knew it was us,” Krem agreed. “Orlais might be on the fence about you, but you’re the second coming of Andraste in these parts of Ferelden. We’d never get another job around here again if anybody thought we’d killed you.”

Killeen had vanished, I realized as I shadowed Krem and the Herald up the hill to the Chantry that dominated the back half of the town. I didn’t doubt that if I slipped away to continue my reconnaissance she’d be right back on me like flies to shit.

Krem gestured for me to stay in the main hall of the Chantry as he followed the Herald back to wherever their maps were. I made my way up to where the giant golden statue of Andraste stood, identical to the one in Denerim. I’d always felt at peace in a Chantry; I guessed it was remembering living in the one in Denerim and knowing somebody was watching over me. Sister Charla was poised to become the next Revered Mother, as I understood it; there were a lot of Grand Clerics to be replaced thanks to the Conclave going up in smoke. The Chantry hierarchical shift would have repercussions felt everywhere short of Tevinter.

Standing in the Chantry, waiting for Krem, letting my mind wander as I gazed absently at Andraste’s ankle mole, I gradually became aware that there was something missing. I felt like I was expecting something here at Haven that wasn’t present. I couldn’t for the life of me figure what it was, but puzzling over it was a wandering sort of bemusement that kept me distracted until Krem reappeared.

“She wants us out of Haven by dawn,” Krem said as I fell into step beside him and we strode briskly towards the door. “Squirrel wore out the welcome.”

I managed a snort before the bright light of day forced me to pay more attention to my steps while my eyes adjusted. We made straight for the tavern to collect Daft, who had the tavern keeper on his lap and was laughing with a beardless dwarf with his shirt half-open to expose where he kept all his hair instead of on his face. Something about this dwarf was familiar to the point of uncomfortable; I knew I'd never met him before, but I had the sudden overwhelming conviction that he was the greatest friend a man could ever hope to have.

“There he is!” Daft called, throwing out his arms in welcome as he saw us enter. “Krem de la Crème!”

“We’re rolling out, man,” I answered as my Lieutenant sighed and shook his head. “Message delivered. Squirrel pissed off the Nightingale.”

“Perhaps we’ll be seeing you gentleman again?” the dwarf inquired as he offered Daft his hand.

“One can only hope,” Daft agreed, maybe a touch too loudly, as he shook the proffered hand. He placed a loud kiss on the cheek of the woman on his lap – I thought she’d said her name was Flissa? – and stood her up as she laughed before pushing himself to his feet. “It’s been a pleasure, friends.”

We’d left all our gear with Daft in the tavern, and it was the work on a moment to pull on our packs and grab Squirrel’s on the way out the door, so we left without further ado. We made it to the stockade gate before Squirrel appeared – dropping down from the top of the door, somehow – and Daft immediately sobered up. I had hoped he was playing the lightweight, and was relieved I wasn’t going to be nursing a drunken comrade back into sobriety all day.

“Everybody get what we needed?” Krem asked as we stopped by the gate to collect our bearings.

He was answered by nods all around.

“Good. Let’s go find the Chief.”

 

*

 

We were passed on the road the next morning by a team of scouts on swift horses all bearing the Inquisition heraldry. We didn’t see them long enough to get much information more than they numbered a dozen, and their leader seemed to be a red headed dwarf.

They beat us handily to the Storm Coast; we passed right by their encampment as we made our way to the beachhead where we’d been told to meet the Chief.

“Krem!” he called as we got close, in a friendly tone that could only be described as a bellow. “Any luck?”

“Said she’s coming, Chief,” Krem answered easily. “Her scouts are set up on the top of the hill, there.”

“Thought as much. Get situated, then come find me.”

I dogged Krem’s footsteps as we dumped our gear in an empty tent, passed the mess line for dinner, and then made our way back to the Chief.

“When the Herald shows up,” he said without preamble, “we send Skinner’s team the signal and they lead the Venatori back here. If we time it right, we finish them off right as the Herald gets down to the beachhead. You report in to verify to the Herald that we’re the same group she’s supposed to be meeting, and I can open negotiations. Easy and done.”

“She’s not gonna like you,” Krem said in lieu of an answer.

“Horseshit. I’m as charming as they come.”

“Vashoth mage,” Krem countered.

“No way,” Bull shook his head. “No way the Chantry would put a Vashoth _mage_ in a place of power. We would have heard about it.”

“You wanna bet?”

“You’re on.”

We spent the next four hours getting grilled by the Chief: where was the Inquisition set up, how, who was involved. Strengths, weaknesses, organization, infrastructure, defenses, offenses, composition. Squirrel was as full of insight as we expected, since she’d pushed the envelope as far as it could go. She knew exactly where people weren’t allowed to go, and what would happen if they tried. Daft had information I didn’t expect; he’d mined the tavern for hours and had sifted more out about the personalities of the Inquisition inner circle than I would have expected. It seemed Flissa was a flirt and the tavern full of gossip. His mining had been shut down when the dwarf appeared – turns out it was none other than Varric Tethras, longtime companion of the Champion of Kirkwall. Daft described their conversation in detail, while he and the Bull picked apart how the reputedly shrewd author had cut Daft out of any further insight about the Inquisition without seeming like anything other than a drunken barfly.

My inspection of the encampment met with a similar dissection, and Krem’s brief sojourn into the warren of rooms in the back of the ancient Chantry was mapped, labeled, and described in almost ludicrous detail.

Somehow, we managed to satisfy the Chief.

“You did good, kids,” he laughed wearily as the evening inched into full darkness. “As good as if I’d trained you myself.”

“You did, Chief,” Squirrel countered happily. We were dismissed with a laugh.

The Herald was only a day behind us on the road. The Chief figured the sounds of combat would draw her down from the encampment pretty quickly after she arrived. Daft had spent the better part of the day scaling the cliff face to the east to be in position to see her show up, and fired the arrow down into camp that started the entire business into motion.

Dalish sent up a flare – a specially coated arrow, she said, special elven trick – and within minutes we heard the taunting giggle of Squirrel in the trees and the crash of soldiers in the underbrush.

This didn’t really feel like a fight. It felt like killing kids. We were over prepared, wanting to make a good impression for the Herald, and the Venatori were caught practically with their pants down. At least one of them was, literally; the bare-assed bastard was the first to be put out of his misery.

It worked, though – the Inquisition’s Herald came storming down the rocky shore to where we were fighting on the beach head, with a black-haired warrior at her side. There was a bald elf somewhere behind her, quickly proving himself to be another mage, and atop a boulder appeared the hairy-chested Varric, firing a beast of a crossbow.

They didn’t contribute much to the fight, taking out a spellbinder who appeared late in the melee, but by the time we’d made sure every Venatori was dead and starting dragging them together for a quick and dirty pyre, the Chief was calling for us to move out.

The Chargers had gotten hired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on now. I've got Higgins and Glennon and Aillis and Eamon. You didn't think I'd leave out Killer and Brownie, did you?


	20. Twitchquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This piece goes _here_ and that one goes _there_ and hrmmm I think that's good for a foundation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters like these are hard for me to post, because while there's a lot going on, it's all character development and almost zero plot. But I couldn't just skip from the last chapter to the next one without covering some ground here. I don't think I'll ever be able to really flesh out Hellen and Bull's rather screwed up friendship (yeah? well you're wrong. oh yeah? well YOU'RE wrong!) unless I break down and write a chapter from Hellen's POV about the first days after they met. I tried to put some of that groundwork here, but I might just have to work something into Stand Your Ground for that.

Bull stayed with the Herald – Hellen Adaar, she introduced herself as – and the Chargers were shipped off to Haven in the company of Head Scout Lace Harding. We had one night with the Herald and her party before we left, which was thankfully just enough time for a courier to find us.

Bull had messages from Par Vollen, like he always did, and he opened them up with the Herald leaning over his shoulder. She read the missive he sent in reply, which was a concession I honestly didn’t expect. The courier came around to the rest of us, and finally – _finally!_ – had a letter for me.

 

_Twitch,_

_I ran into some trouble on the road. Two Templars stumbled upon me the day after I left ~~you~~ the Chargers. Turns out they were real Templars, and not demented asschabs (oh, now I miss Durin). They followed me for a few days, nearly drove me to distraction, and so I turned around to knock them off my trail by force. Turns out they had recognized me and were following me to protect other Templars **from me**_ **.** _The official word out of Amaranthine was that I didn’t use blood magic, and I’m a very dangerous apostate but not a maleficar. At least, as far as these two Templars are concerned, I’m not maleficar. How nice of them to notice, don’t you think?_

_Anyways. I’m keeping them around. It’s safer this way. It took me a bit longer to get to Val Royeaux than anticipated, but I’m here and I’m safe._

_Val Royeaux, on the other hand, is a fucking disaster. Sera is here, and she was overjoyed to see me, much to my surprise. I don’t have enough room to write everything that’s going wrong here, not and be able to afford the postage, but you know the steps to this dance: the elves in Orlais are suffering while the nobility fight for power. The alienage in Val Royeaux is a fucking mess. There was an uprising in Halamshiral that was met with force, and most of the city was burnt down. Well, the city outside of the noble estates was burnt down; Maker forbid anything happen to the Winter Palace._

_Sera’s had her work cut out for her, but I’m starting to think she operates on too grand a scale for the average Jenny. There’s too much wrong for her to fix one baddie at a time, and even she only has so many arrows. I’m not sure what she’s planning but it’s clear her mind is elsewhere._

_I’m sure by now you’ve heard about what happened at the Conclave. Do you remember telling me to stay out of Kirkwall, to avoid Haven, or did you forget that too, along with everything else that made you, you? I always thought you were being obtuse, or just dealing with the distance; looking back through all your letters I can see it now, how you lost yourself. I would say I don’t know how you’ve survived this long, being so broken, but I bet that’s why you did it. Survival._

_I can’t be sure you know your own purpose, since you put it all out of your mind, but you have a date to keep. Sometime this year, you have to meet someone in the Frostback mountains. You said you hoped you timed it right and showed up after everything went to shit. Looking at the hole in the Veil, I think it’s safe to assume that was what you were wanting to avoid. I thought the Chargers were going to lead you there; you gave that impression in your letters, although now I’m not sure if that’s what you meant at all. I’m not sure of anything anymore. Just promise me you’ll be careful when you head into Haven._

_I don’t want to lose what little of you there is left._

_Opie_

 

I must have sat there and read it a dozen times. There was a bitterness bleeding through that I’d never gotten from one of her letters before. The whole second half made no sense; it was like she was remembering a conversation she had with someone else, and mistakenly thought it was me. And yet there was a ring of truth to it, something that made the memory swirl briefly in the back of my consciousness before settling in to reassure me everything was as it should be.

I folded the letter in with its large collection of fellows and resolved to write her from Haven. I didn’t have to pull it out of my pack to know what it said; there was an accusation hidden in her words that was burned onto my retinas. I’d hurt her somehow; I’d shaken her faith in our friendship, her faith in _me_ , and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what had happened.

Something I said, something I’d done, had made her leave.

I wandered down the road to Haven in a near trance, drawing Krem’s attention almost immediately.

“Bad news?” he asked. Everybody knew when someone else had news from home; the courier announced letter recipients pretty loudly.

“Yeah. I pissed off Opie.”

“That why she cut and ran?”

“I think so? I don’t know.”

Krem chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder. “Welcome to the confusing world of relationships.”

“It’s not like that,” I argued.

“Not anymore, most likely,” Krem laughed.

I just shook my head. There was no way to explain Opie’s accusation and make it make sense. Everybody knew about my short-lived farcical relationship with the apostate in West Hill… she and her family had vanished when the Accord dissolved, sending me one last letter thanking me for my help and friendship over the years. That had earned me a reputation as a lady’s man in the Chargers, and if thinking Opie and I had broken up kept Krem off my back I would let him roll with it.

I was still lost in thought when we arrived back in Haven. The Chargers set up camp adjacent to the army, and we were left to our own devices – with the caveat of _don’t cause any trouble_ – to wait for the Chief to come back and formalize our position. I was perched on an outcrop of rock overlooking the lake within the hour, with the thin plank I’d long used as a writing board.

 

_Opie,_

_To say I’m confused is probably an understatement. I don’t remember much of those early days in Denerim, and I don’t remember anything before the day I showed up in the Chantry.  I don’t remember whatever it is you’re mad at me about, and I don’t know how to make this better. What do you need me to say? I’m sorry I forgot? Because if me forgetting something hurt you in some way, I am. I am so, so sorry I forgot._

_I’m writing this from Haven. The Breach looks creepy beyond belief from here. It’s like a storm that never moves, swirling in place forever. Have you seen it? I’m not quite sure of the timeline, whether you made it to Val Royeaux before the Conclave or if it’s visible from there. The word in Haven is that the Herald is going to close it once she can get either the mage alliance or the rebel Templars to work with her. It sounds like a foregone conclusion here, like it’s just a matter of time before everyone else comes to their senses and decides to help. I know it didn’t sound like that in Orlais when last we were there, so I wonder what the story is in Val Royeaux._

_Her name is Hellen Adaar, by the way. The Herald, I mean. She’s ~~Qunari~~ Vashoth, and a mage to boot. She’s got the Chief out with her, which makes all of us a little nervous. They got off on a weird foot, since he follows the Qun and she **really** does not approve. She seems a bit paranoid, but given the story of how she was blamed for the Breach – and that green glowing shit on her hand – I can’t really blame her. I haven’t talked to her, just been around when she talked to Krem or the Chief. You know how that goes… almost makes me miss running with Jennies. _

_Anyways. We’re based out of Haven for the time being, so it should be easier to get messages through. We haven’t both been stationary since I left Highever all those years ago; it will be nice to be able to have a reliable timeframe for the mail again._

_Keep safe in Val Royeaux. The Game is harder there than it is in Denerim. There’s a reason nobody likes Orlesians._

_And tell me about these two Templars. I need to know who I’m killing if anybody fucks with you again._

_Twitch_

 

I hoped the reference to Amaranthine there at the end would remind her of our friendship. I still wasn’t sure why she was mad, not after everything that had happened last spring, but I was glad to have heard from her and gotten a chance to write back. I capped my ink well and packed up my supplies, and was on my way back into Haven proper to figure out their post arrangement when I ran into Lieutenant Killeen.

“I hear your merc captain has signed on with the Inquisition?” she demanded in lieu of a greeting.

“You hearing is impeccable, Lieutenant.”

She snorted and gestured for me to follow her. “Your Lieutenant, Krem his name? He’s cloistered with my Commander. Rather than wait around and try to get information from Rutherford or have to make your Lieutenant repeat himself, I’m getting what I want from you.”

“I’m flattered, Killeen. I wasn’t expecting a proposition.”

She paused a step and sighed, shaking her head. “It was only a matter of time before one of you assholes gave me trouble. I was hoping it was later, rather than sooner.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I quipped. “Before you take what you want from me, can you show me where to find a courier to get this sent off?”

She shook her head but complied, taking me to a veritable mob of couriers who descended daily upon Haven; foot soldiers for both sides of the Chantry’s propaganda war. I asked around and found a man headed to Val Royeaux, and for a mere copper he added my letter to his pile.

“Is this safe?” I asked Killeen as she led me back towards the encampment. “That pile of information is likely to get him pulled off the road when he tries to get through the war in the Dales.”

Killeen shook her head. “Formal Inquisition business is conducted strictly by raven.” She pointed at a swirling mass of feathers on the hill behind the Chantry. I could almost hear the commotion of the rookery, now that I knew to listen for it in the general chaos of noise in Haven. “We let a few couriers get caught at the beginning, sent fake missives from soldiers that nobody would miss, and they quickly stopped being harassed. Soldiers don’t like to keep people from hearing about their loved ones, so unless there's some nobleman looking for something the armies in Orlais will let the couriers through. But just to be safe, we have the couriers register whose letters they’re taking, so if one does go missing we know who needs to rewrite their letters.”

“Has that happened?”

“Once, right after the Herald quieted the Breach. Been over a month now.”

I sighed and let it go. If Opie didn’t get the letter, I’d write another one. It was too late to worry about it now. There wasn’t anything horribly revealing in it, I didn’t think, so I put it out of mind.

We were at a campfire, then, somewhere deep in the encampment. There were some soldiers here and there, but for the most part this section of the camp was empty. Lieutenant Killeen pushed me onto a stump near the fire and gestured for me to start talking as she took a similar seat nearby.

Killeen didn’t ask anything I thought I couldn’t answer. Composition was a common question when it came to merc companies, and I knew to not expose Dalish. She didn’t ask for references – I couldn’t rattle ‘em off like Krem or Bull and she couldn’t check them – but she did ask what sort of jobs we’d done and how we’d done them. It was all very clinical, and she gave me a chance at the end to ask about Inquisition tactics and the plans in place in case of attack.

I wasn’t really impressed with their emergency preparedness, and I told her as much. She agreed unhappily. “I didn’t really think about that before now. I’ll bring it up with the Commander. There isn’t really anybody who would attack us, so it’s not something high on the priority list. Ferelden is on good terms with us currently, and Orlais is too busy killing itself to worry about our forces. Anybody else would incite war with Orlais or Ferelden to even _get_ here…”

“Better to have and not need, than need and not have,” I told her.

She chuckled and nodded. “No, you’re right. Point two to the Chargers. We’ve been sanding that fucking wall since you were here the first time.”

“You want me to ask Squirrel to see if she can still get over it?”

Killeen shuddered. “No. No need, rather. She already did. My whole month is wrecked.”

She gave me a quick tour of the camp, acknowledging that I probably didn’t need it, given I’d been _spying_ on them in the not too distant past. She focused on the things I might not have been able to observe, like the hours of operation of the kitchen, system of distribution of water, job board and quartermaster requisition requests.

She left me with a clap to the shoulder and I was left to disseminate the information to the rest of the Chargers. By the time Krem left his meeting with Commander Cullen, he had nothing to report that the rest of us didn’t already know. Siren asked if the new Commander was a blowhard.

“Nah,” Krem answered. “He seems brutally efficient, actually. Puts up with less nonsense than the Chief. What took so long was the constant interruptions.”

“Got his hands in everything?” Meck surmised.

“Seems to let his Lieutenants make their own decisions,” Krem countered with a shrug. “He just wants to be kept in the loop about all of them. Most of what was coming in was status reports.”

“Building infrastructure,” I chimed in, and got a number of slowly nodded heads in response. “Not something you want to fuck around with. Building systems is always going to be harder than maintaining them.”

“And at the rate he’s running,” Daft added, “that’s got to be twice as hard. All those people we passed on the road have to go somewhere.”

Until the Chief got back, a little under a week later, we settled in to watch. We stayed out of the way, of course, and kept Squirrel on a tight leash, and did what we could to be helpful without interrupting. Skinner left the first morning we were in Haven with half the scouts to range deeper into the mountains and bring back rams and forage to offset our food consumption. Krem, Meck and I got Siren and the rest of the shield-swingers to pitch in and help drag lumber down from the logging stands and lift timbers into place on the wall and trebuchet building sites. Stitches found the alchemist, Adan, and helped relieve some of his burden so the grumpier man could get back to his preferred studies. Rocky and the sappers were investigating all the nearby ranges for integrity and avalanche risk, and brought back detailed reports to the Commander.

When the Chief rolled in, he barely checked in with Krem before engrossing himself in pay negotiations with the Ambassador and Seneschal.

“Same weekly pay,” he announced when he returned, “but the Inquisition picks up food and board as well.”

“That’s a good deal, Chief,” Krem congratulated him. “How’d you managed that?”

“The Ambassador recognizes the value of connections, and we’ve got a lot. Now. Show me what you’ve been up to.”

The Iron Bull was pretty pleased with us, and for the most part told us to keep going with our activities, with the caveat to Rocky and Skinner to keep their teams close to Haven. “Don’t want to delay the Boss for days if she’s got a job for us to do.”

“So you’re not the Boss?” Siren laughed.

“He’s the Chief,” Krem countered while the Bull nodded. “The Herald is the Boss.”

Stitches got a new task, however – Bull gave him a series of measurements and set him to work making what turned out to be a pillow. It looked completely unremarkable once it was finished; I was one of several Chargers who pretty unabashedly peered over Stitches’ shoulder while he worked. The trick was in the layers of quilting that made up the stuffing on the inside; they formed a hollow in the middle that provided almost no support, while everything around that was firm to the point of unyielding.

“It’s for the Boss,” Stitches said after the Chief left to deliver the tailor’s handiwork. “Chief’s got something sort of like it, but not as detailed. Did you know there’s dedicated pillow makers in Par Vollen?”

Squirrel had followed the Chief to watch the delivery. She reported back that there hadn’t even been an exchange of words when Bull made the delivery. “He just walked up and handed it to her, and her face lit up like she knew just what it was. She squished it a couple times and then grinned. Made her look like a whole different person.”

Stitches got a barrel of ale delivered with a note of effusive thanks the next day from the Herald, who was frequently seen to engage in heated – if good natured – debate with the Chief. Krem, who was always nearby, reported that it was about the Qun and the nature of rage. After three days they seemed to agree to disagree.

“The Chief saying his letters back to Par Vollen would keep the Qun from looking for her probably had something to do with the truce,” Krem laughed. “The pillow and neck rub likely didn’t hurt either.”

“Neck rub?” Siren laughed.

“She said nobody else had hands big enough… something about tiny little humans and their tiny little hands. I left. Didn’t figure I wanted to know.”

The Boss came for our Chief the morning after their apparent peace agreement, and signed him on to go with her to Val Royeaux. I was building up the fire just a few feet away, and couldn’t help but have my ears perk up at the name of the Orlesian capital.

“You said you were a front-end bodyguard,” Adaar announced after bidding him good morning. “You proved that pretty adequately in the Storm Coast. I’m convinced walking into the marketplace in Val Royeaux will be like painting a target on my forehead, if you're interested in an encore performance.”

“You’d be better off with vitaar than targets,” Bull said with a rumbling sort of chuckle.

The Herald’s voice dropped. “I know, I know,” she sighed. She crouched beside a stump meant to be a seat by the fire and leaned onto it with both elbows. “They already see me as a monster, Bull. Streaking myself with Qunari warpaint isn’t going to win me any accolades in this crowd. You can play the berserker card. I have to-“

“First, you don’t,” Bull countered immediately. “You don’t have to do shit right now except keep the demons out of your head and seal up these damn holes in the sky. And Second…” Bull reached over and caught Adaar’s chin with a finger, tilting her head back and forth in the light. She stiffened and I thought for a minute I was going to see my first Qunari-on-Qunari brawl.

“I’m pretty sure we could match your skin tone. It’ll limit your options, but we could get you coated without turning the Vitaar into an announcement.”

She relaxed minutely once he withdrew his hand. “Want to work on it on the road to Val Royeaux?”

”Sure thing, Boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, the solution to the vitaar question Eisen raised, like, months ago.
> 
> In other news, I recognize that the birthday of Keep to the Stars is upon us. I posted the first chapter on August 25th of last year, a few weeks after I got back to the 'States from Berlin. I think it's fitting to bring this around full circle, so I will post the next chapter of Will's Story that day, the one that closes the time loop and brings us back around to the beginning of the story. Also, there's an explanation of my life and times [here](http://themarydragon.tumblr.com/post/149278641083/existence) if you're curious about my relative silence. ALSO many many thanks to everyone for the near-continuous outpouring of love and support. You're saving my life, for real.


	21. Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we bring everything back to where we started.
> 
> dem stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the first anniversary of the first chapter of Keep to the Stars. Thanks for being here. <3

The days after the Chief left with the Herald – Seeker Cassandra and Varric Tethras bickering in their wake – should have been boring. We were essentially on shore leave, waiting for there to be some work for the Chargers to do. We trained like we always did, and aside from general carousing there was nothing else on the agenda unless we volunteered for it.

We didn’t handle boredom well, though, so most all of us volunteered for work around Haven.

Lieutenant Killeen agreed to let me tag along with her soldiers when they had work rotation, and I generally dragged Siren, Meck or Grim along with me just so I wasn’t the odd man out. I liked the Inquisition Lieutenant – it was hard not to – and she seemed to like having a soldier around who didn’t technically work with her; I was neither subordinate nor compeer. We could be friends without worrying about politics or fraternization.

Not that we got much of an opportunity for extending the acquaintance, since she spent nearly as many hours browbeating her Commander into better self-care as she did caring for her soldiers, both of which were in addition to her workload as an Inquisition army officer.

Regardless of my efforts to remain industrious, I did end up spending a great deal of time in the tavern – all the Chargers did. This meant I was seated in my standard spot in the corner farthest from the door when the elf burst in.

“Inquisiwhatsit!” she announced, throwing her arms open wide. “Meet yer match!”

“Can I help you, miss?” Flissa inquired politely.

“It’s _Sera_ , not _miss_ ,” the elf countered, dragging a stool out from under the counter and perching on it as if to disprove any notion of femininity. “And I’ll have the swill!”

“No such thing as swill here,” I called into the sudden silence that met her entrance. The tavern wasn’t particularly raucous, but observation of the newcomer had stilled all other activity. Flissa shot me a grateful sort of look as she poured Sera a mug of the standard ale. “Even the cheap shit is drinkable, Sera.”

She turned to look at me, and whatever retort she had died on her lips. She frowned, and I knew she was trying to place me.

She was unmistakable; something about her abject refusal to cut her hair evenly called her out of my memory the moment she’d walked in. I hadn’t worked with her much in Denerim – she’d just been some asshole kid when I left – but you never forgot your Friends. I met her eye, which made her brow furrow more, and then deliberately dropped my hand to the table and tapped out the signature Natalia had assigned to me nearly a decade before.

Sera’s eyes flew wide. “No way.”

“Did you never learn how to cut your damn hair?”

“TWITCHY!” She charged across the room. I laughed and pushed myself up from the chair, just in time to catch her as she leapt into the air. She got both hands in my hair and ran them in opposite directions, completely ruining any semblance of order I had managed to comb into the blond mane I kept just long enough to tie back. “Twitchy! You piece a’shit, Opie said you were here and I didn’t believe ‘er and look at you! Somethin’ fucked yer face!”

I laughed and peeled her off me, setting her feet back on the floor. She and Squirrel were cut from the same cloth, it seemed. “So Opie made it to Val Royeaux?”

“Opie! Right, Opie!” She grinned at me. “I almost forgot!”

Faster than I could react – mostly because I didn’t expect it, she stepped back, twisted, and threw a right cross that caught me square on the chin and put my ass _down_. I blinked and found myself on my back on the floor, Sera perched on my chest.

“’Ats for leavin’ Opie. I’m not gonna kill ya, ‘cause you hauled ‘er outta Amaranthine n’all. But Opie’s my favorite elf, ain’t all elfy like the rest of ‘em, ain’t never been scary with her magic. She shoulda never been left alone to run, and you know it.”

I nodded, and she let me up.

“Where were you?” I asked, after wiping the blood from my split lip off my chin. “When the Templars finally raided the alienage and couldn’t be turned away, where were you?”

“Val Royeaux,” Sera answered, and then scrunched her nose. “Yeah, it’s prolly fair if-“

Fair, my ass. I wasn’t waiting for permission. I dropped back and gave her a jack to the face to match the one she’d just given me. If she could lay my ass out, she could take a hit just fine. She spun full around as she dropped, rolling across the floor to bump into a table leg. She was up quick, and spat out something that could have been a tooth.

“Right," she said, with a brisk shake of her head. "We done?” 

“Done. Wanna meet my Chargers?”

She glanced at the beer Flissa had set on the counter, ran her tongue over her teeth, shuddered, and nodded. “Yeah. Gonna need a minute before I pour beer on this. Let’s go meet yer Friends.”

She and Squirrel were stupid together. Just stupid. If anything ever happened to the Chargers I was sure Squirrel would be running with Jennies without so much as a hiccough. I got Sera through all forty-something of us, even rattling off the sapper’s names with pride. Sera absorbed it all, and then dragged me back to the tavern.

“Got work to do, lotsa work, but don’t be a stranger, hear?”

“I hear,” I agreed immediately. She was bound to have stories about the Friends in Denerim that I hadn’t gotten to hear yet, and she was somebody who could remember Opie with me when letters were slow.

“A’ight. I shouldn't have punched ya inna face, since yer right and all and I was gone too. And I wasn’t gonna give you this, but since ain’t mad atcha anymore I can’t really stomach keepin it. So here.”

She dug out of her pack a rather crumpled letter, with my name scrawled across the front in handwriting I would know anywhere. I took it carefully out of Sera’s proffered hand.

“Thanks Sera.”

“Aw, get outta here, I don’t wanna see this.”

She didn’t need to tell me twice. I took the letter from Opie and made a clean getaway to the rocky outcrop over the lake where I’d written to her before.

_Twitch,_

_Sera’s met your Herald. Make sure she tells you about the breeches tip, I’m pretty proud of it. Aillis did the actual confiscating, and I don’t think she’s stopped laughing yet. It’s been good to work again._

_Of course, we hit our stride just as Sera decides to leave. Rather than waste money on a courier – it’s a full silver to write to Haven! – I’m sending it along with Sera. She thinks she can do more good for more people if she can exert some influence over the people currently remaking the world. People are scared of the Inquisition out here. They can’t really fight it because there’s nobody with any authority to counter what the Inquisition is doing, and the more work the Inquisition does to calm the Breach and seal the rifts, the less likely it becomes that anybody will be able to match them. It would help if Orlais wasn’t stuck in this awful war, the people would be able to have some faith in the Crown, but right now the only real power in Southern Thedas is building up in Haven._

_This is where I remind you to be careful._

_You don’t have to worry about my Templars, but if it makes you feel better, I suppose it’s good filler. Knight-Lieutenant Eamon is a freckle-face ginger from Redcliffe village, named for the old Arl. He’s very thoughtful and deliberate, and he serves as mentor to Knight-Templar Aillis. They’ve got the same green eyes, and she’s almost as tall as him, but they say they’re siblings by choice, not blood. She got hair like Solona’s, and has no idea where she’s from. Makes me wonder, you know? She’s a good kid, and wants to learn. I can’t help but imagine what she could have become, were the world different._

_Don’t let Sera give you any shit. And Hank wanted me to remind you to keep writing him, since he can’t just pump me for information anymore._

_Opie_

 

I spent most of the next day and half reading and rereading Opie’s letter. I pulled out the one I’d received prior, and tried to figure out where I’d gone wrong. The word that kept tripping me up was _filler_. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Why did she skip right over the part where I’d apologized? Wasn’t that what I was supposed to do, apologize? Did her not saying anything meant I was forgiven, and this letter was her just going back to the way things were?

When the fuck was somebody going to write a manual about women?

And it’s not like I could ask Sera. She’d punched me, I’d punched her, then everything was cool. I thought that was the way Opie and I were… Maker, if I had a sovereign for every time she threw that right of hers, I’d buy half the bannorn.

I still hadn’t decided what to write back when the Chief returned. Adaar was turning around and heading right back, having gotten an outright invitation to talk to Enchanter Fiona, who was leading the mages who had allied to fight the Templars. She wasn’t committing to an alliance with Fiona, but the Chief thought it was just a matter of time.

Hellen Adaar had no love of Templars, the Qun, the Chantry, Orlais… really for anything.

“Girl trusts no one and no thing,” the Chief said with a sigh as he and Krem watched the Herald ride out of Haven that afternoon. I had happened to be close enough to hear, and Bull didn’t seem to mind my presence.

“Girl?” I echoed.

The Iron Bull glanced at me, and shrugged. “She’s young. Only a couple years older than Sera. Was still a kid in the Blight, only has basic magic training, is running off instinct. She’ll throw us out so hard we bounce if I try to bring her to the Qun, but she’s like me. She needs it. She’s bursting at the seams.”

“That why she’s so friendly with you?” Krem asked, a bit shrewdly. “Maybe she knows she needs help, and you’re the only hand out.”

Bull shook his head. “She doesn’t want my help. Whether she knows she needs it or not, she hates the Qun just as badly as she hates Templars, if not more. It’s all slavery to her, but luckily she thinks falling to demons is slavery of the same sort. That might be the only thing keeping her together.”

“So what do we do?” I asked, feeling impossibly far out of my league.

“Hope she finds something to believe in,” Bull sighed. “Or, failing that, hope that mark on her hand works without the rest of her attached to it.”

*

When the marching orders came, they came in a rush. We had twelve hours to load up and meet the Herald and her team on the road outside the gatehouse. The Herald had shitty news from Redcliffe, it seemed, and we were in a mad dash to get back there and fix whatever had gone wrong.

I was almost out of chances to write Opie back, so I took a moment that night, putting off sleep in the name of not making Opie wait any longer. I still didn’t know what I wanted to say, but the time for indecision was past.

 

_Opie,_

_We’re leaving in the morning for Redcliffe. Something’s happened with the mages there, and the Herald feels we have to intervene. I don’t have clarification of our orders yet; don’t know how dangerous this might be. I’d tell you not to worry but fucked if I know. Judging by your last couple letters, I’m pretty sure you’re glad to hear I will be leaving Haven for a bit. Hopefully the Herald will have the support she needs to close the Breach when we get back; that’s the hope, at least._

_I don’t know if you’ve heard from Sera, but she socked me one in the jaw when I ran into her at the tavern. I returned the favor, and it seems like we’re solid again. She’s twice the height she was when I saw her last, but she still hasn’t learned how to cut her hair in a straight line. It was a relief to see some things never change._

_I’m glad you have a couple of pocket Templars who seem willing to keep you out of trouble. That’s definitely preferable to the sort of Templar you usually attract. It does me good to know you’re safe again. I hope you stay that way._

_I’ve written Gil and Brue; that seems less awkward than trying to write to Senna, and Brue has to be a better correspondent than his house husband. Fun fact: Hank fucking hates being called that._

_I’m getting this sealed with wax and I’m including a silver piece. I don’t want you to not write because couriers are turning to highway robbery. You might think I’ve forgotten something critical, but I’ve kept every letter you’ve ever sent, and I remember every day I’ve spent with you._

_You, at least, are something I will never forget._

_Twitch_

I gave the courier an extra silver to keep the seal intact, and told him that the person he was delivering it to would kill him if it was missing when it was delivered. He accepted the missive with an eager nod and rough swallow. My duty to Ophelia discharged, I was able to sleep the few hours left before our muster.

“What are we killing?” I asked the Chief as we trotted down the road in formation in the predawn air.

“Whatever fucks with us on the road, for one,” he replied with that rolling rumble of a chuckle. “Besides that, hopefully nothing. You’ll be in place around Redcliffe as backup in case of emergency. If everything goes to shit, you’re to lay waste to every ‘Vint you can find.”

“Excuse you,” Krem grunted.

“You’re not a ‘Vint,” Bull corrected him. “You’re Krem.

“Thanks, Chief.”

“Vints?” Siren clarified.

“Fiona’s mages have sold themselves to Tevinter,” Bull answered with a sigh.

Krem whistled between his teeth. “Bet the Herald didn’t like that one bit.”

“That might be an understatement.”

“Don’t call me Herald,” the woman bearing that title chastised as we came to a halt at her feet. “I’ll accept _boss_ from you Chargers, but otherwise my name’s Adaar, is that clear? Andraste hasn’t done a damn thing for me and I aim to return the favor.”

“Understood, Boss,” Krem answered easily.

“Ooh, we’re bringing Twitchy and his friends,” Sera cooed from somewhere behind Hellen’s long coat. “This might almost be worth it.”

“I could still switch you out for Varric,” Adaar countered, but there was no malice in her tone.

“Nah, I won you over with the breeches,” Sera shrugged. “You’re hoping I steal Alexius’ hat.”

“Andraste knows I am,” a smooth sort of a voice with just a hint of Tevinter accent added. As we all fell into formation and began the march out of the mountains, we were introduced to Dorian Pavus, Altus of the Magisterium and instant antagonist to Bull and Krem. Or perhaps it was the other way around? Regardless, Dorian played a gleefully vindictive sort of back-and-forth war with my Captain and Lieutenant all the way to our meeting with the mages.

In Redcliffe, the world as I knew it came crashing down around me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a refresher on what comes next, click back over to Chapter 1! We've finally caught up to the Prologue. I didn't think I could cover ten years in twenty chapters, but I'm glad I decided to carry this on through the Inquisition years.


	22. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wake me up when it's all over  
> When I'm wiser and I'm older  
> All this time I was finding myself  
> And I didn't know I was lost
> 
> *
> 
> We are now running alongside Keep to the Stars.  
> This chapter covers the same timeline as Chapters 1, 2, and (the first half of) 3 from the original story.  
> Also, we're picking up straight from Chapter 1 of *this* story so there is a bit of a jump from Chapter 21 to here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that Will/Twitch is an unreliable narrator, and is now in the middle of a personality conflict/crisis. Not that this necessarily is critical to this chapter, but from here on it will come up a lot.

She needed to wake up.

She’d made it back to the inn from the castle without so much as a flutter of eyelashes; a lift onto horseback, a gallop, and a dismount. Up the stairs to the room, tucked into bed, then lifted back into Hellen’s arms, back down the stairs, back onto Hellen’s horse; all without any semblance of consciousness.

The same through three long days of travel back to Haven, the Chargers seeming to pick up the sense of haste from Hellen.

I couldn’t help but think, _Good God, let them not be hurrying because I want them to_.

Through it all, the jostles and jumps and drops, she didn’t stir. Didn’t snore. Didn’t do anything.

She needed to wake up. We needed to get her somewhere safe, somewhere somebody could look at her and _wake her the fuck up_.

It was all I could think of. Everything else my mind flitted to was too blindingly horrifying to contemplate.

The lies I’d fed the Bull, Krem, the Chargers.

The sudden, overwhelming realization of exactly why Ophelia had left: her refusal to sink any more time into a man too much a coward to remember his own name.

The eight _years_ I had spent without a backwards thought of who I was and why, the millions of tiny moments that made me Will, that had made me Twitch, that had brought me through a decade of madness to this breaking point in time.

And all of it – every red second – was at risk of being totally fucking worthless if my charge, if the woman I’d spent ten years unknowingly waiting for, didn’t _wake the fuck up_.

Gwen Murray. Her name was Gwen Murray, it had to be. She would wake up and she would tell everyone her name and her purpose and everything would be fine.

God let everything be fine.

Let the last ten years not be a fucking _waste_.

If she died now, everything I had done… leaving Denerim, leaving-

It wasn’t anything I could think about.

We got back to Haven on the coldest day of the year, with the horses’ breath freezing around their faces, and the whole column of Chargers wishing for nothing more than a fire and something hard to drink. While Siren and Meck and Skinner were calling out what they would order when we got to the tavern, I fought to keep my face neutral. Faking it any more than that was completely out of the realm of possibility. I felt the old twitchiness settle back into my shoulders, and I knew it was only a matter of time before-

“What’s gotten into you?” The Chief rumbled.

Fuck.

“Time travel?” I countered, abandoning all hope of keeping my voice steady. “A future full of a fucking demon army? What the fuck is the Elder One? Red lyrium _growing out of people_? Chief. Why aren’t _you_ freaking the fuck out?”

The Iron Bull let himself shiver. “Got to not think about it, kid. It’ll get under your skin if you think about it.”

“I’m trying, Chief. I’m trying really hard.”

“Listen, I’ve got to go with the Boss for the debriefing. She’s going to need someone to verify what happened while she and the ‘Vint were in that portal. Since you seem to be the only one not interested in a drink, why don’t you take first watch on the stranger.”

I glanced at the back of Adaar’s head as she disappeared into the big double doors of the Chantry, those _fucking shoes_ still dangling limply over her left arm.

“You sure, Chief? Seems like a good way to get trapped in my head.”

“Take notes on the stranger. She might start waking up once Solas has seen to her. He’s good with head shit. If she’s talking in her sleep, she moves at all, you let me know.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” I agreed.

I loitered in the hallway outside her room in the Chantry until Solas came out. He spared me a nod and I tried, desperately, to remember why Cindy hated him. She had a picture on her computer of him and Blackwall wearing yellow plaid with a _punishment for the lying liars_ tag in bold beneath it. If she’d ever told me, I hadn’t listened.

Jesus, I’d forgotten Cindy.

No fucking wonder Ophelia had left. I’d told her about Cindy, the night I’d made myself forget. What kind of man makes himself forget the woman he was going to marry? Who wants to spend their time with a guy who might decide to forget them, just like he forgot his _last_ family?

 _Got to not think about it, kid_.

I shouldered open the door and saw Gwen lying in the middle of the room, on a thin pallet.

She had black-and-white chuck taylors on. I didn’t really need to see anything else to know where the hell she’d come from. The blue jeans were helpful, but unnecessary. She was wearing a men’s hoodie, and judging by the length and width of the white shirt tails peeking out of the bottom of the sweatshirt, she was probably wearing a man’s dress shirt under it. She had her hands folded across her waist, and a simple gold wedding band on her left ring finger.

Our Herald was going to wake up a widow.

I was in danger of _fuck_ becoming the only word in my vocabulary.

Could I even help her with that? I’d done my best to get over Cindy by never talking about her, and then doing my best to _wipe her completely out of my memory_. Was that going to be my advice when Gwen woke up? “Give it a little while and you can just forget about him and start over.”

I circled the room to turned my back to the wall, to face both her and the door. She had a mass of brown hair that was roughly braided and trapped between her head and the floor. Was that good or bad? Was it like a pillow?  I let my back hit the wall and then slid to land heavily on the floor.

Could I even talk to her without ruining everything I’d built with the Chargers?

I wouldn’t know until she woke up. If she would just wake up _now_ , I could throw her a damn welcome party and swear her to silence. Welcome to Thedas, don’t rat me out.

A song from my high school graduation popped into my head and I dropped my head into my hands and allowed myself to sigh with disgust.

Ten years in Thedas and the first real memory is fucking _Switchfoot_.

“Welcome to the planet,” I sung, half under my breath. “Welcome to existence. Everyone’s here. Everybody’s watching you now. Everybody waits for you now.”

I sighed again. “At least I’m waiting for you,” I told her still form, the words in English coming more easily than they had any right to. “Is it even worth the effort to dare you to move?”

She shifted, and I froze. “Patrick,” she said, the word slurred but unmistakable. “Need Patrick. Where…”

I pushed myself off the floor and staggered to the door. I opened it, slid into the hall, and left it standing open behind me.

She wasn’t talking to me. She couldn’t be talking to me. She would have called me _William_ , or even _William Patrick_ , right? Right? Her old man’s name must have been Patrick, she wasn’t talking to me.

Was this what Andraste wanted? Was she going to live out her existence as a vegetable? Solas would come down daily to brush honeyed tea over her lips and I would defend her body while we hovered over her and waited for bits of prophesy?

“Jameson, little Jamie, little nugget,” her voice drifted into the hall.

I stumbled a few steps farther away and stopped, trying to steel up some resolve. What if Bull came down the hallway right now? What would he think?

I forced myself back into the room, taking up a spot in the corner opposite the door but still on the interior wall. She muttered fitfully, losing strength quickly until her slurred whispers vanished into restless sleep.

There was no window in the room. It was long after midnight before Bull came to find me, but I wouldn’t realize the passage of time until I made it outside.

“Got Solas coming to check in on her overnight,” the Chief said after drawing me out of the room with a gesture. “Boss wants to rush the Breach closing. She’s making the run tomorrow. Says the mages don’t need any time to prepare, they’re born with the magic innate. Nobody’s very happy about it, but she’s the lady with glowy green hand so she’s calling the shots. We’ve got to be prepared to evacuate if this goes tits up.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Tell me what you know about our stranger.”

Well, fuck. “Besides that she fell out of a portal in Redcliffe? Shit, Chief, you were there. You don’t need my take.”

“Ha! I meant today. Just now. What did you notice?”

I stifled the sigh of relief, but only barely. I wasn’t sure I could actually lie to the Chief, not knowingly.

“Did you see her shoes?”

He coughed a laugh. “Yeah.”

“No way those came from around here. Clothes don’t fit her well, like they’re for somebody bigger, maybe a husband? Verified by the ring on her left hand, looks like gold. Didn’t get close.”

“No? Why not?”

“Creeped me out. Talking in her sleep. Sounded like names. And definitely Qunlat. She one of yours?”

The Iron Bull paused mid-step, but recovered quickly. “I don’t think the Qun would be working with some ‘Vint magister to make time portals. There’s some rather specialized craftsmen in Par Vollen but none of them made those shoes. So… no. No, not one of ours.”

“She said ‘Patrick, need Patrick, where,” I told him, mimicking the Qunlat carefully. I was still skeeved out over speaking English around the Chief, and remembering why it made me uncomfortable did nothing to help the sensation.

Bull was looking at me in an almost predatory way. “Is it this stranger that’s got you worked up?”

“Some Viddathari from the future?” I asked, and then let the shiver happen. “Maybe. All of this has me unsettled, Chief.”

“You know her?”

I tipped my chin up, met his hard stare with a steady gaze, and answered him honestly. “I have never seen her before in my life. If I saw her before I was in Denerim, I don’t remember it.”

It was enough for the Chief. He ruffled my hair and then jerked his chin to indicate I was still meant to follow. “Let’s get you back to Krem and you can pitch in with the prep. We’re all fucked if this Breach business doesn’t take.”

*

I have never been so happy to have the doom of utter apocalypse hanging over my head. It gave me something to think about other than the quagmire of deceit I had sunk my life into. The Inquisition proper wasn’t preparing to evacuate – if the attempt to close the Breach failed, they would stand and take the consequences. Arguably that only meant they were dedicated to buying some time for the rest of the world to get its affairs in order and kiss its ass goodbye.

The Chargers were no martyrs. We packed up and left our gear in a tight line against the inside of the stockade wall, where we could grab it on the way out of town. We weren’t going to abandon this ship while it was still hale, however, so we set to helping the regular army with their preparations.

We didn’t have much time to kill. Adaar took Cassandra, Solas, and a metric fuckton of mages up the mountain at day break. By noon there was this godawful screeching sound coming from the ruins of the temple, overlaying a decidedly ominous rumble. A streak of solid green energy shot out of the earth, directly into the center of the Breach, and then the sky flared white.

When our vision cleared, the Breach was a scar across the sky, a still-swirling mass of energy but completely devoid of green lightning or demons dropping out of it to the earth.

As the cheer went up around us, I couldn’t help but wonder why it wasn’t _gone_. She sealed it, shouldn’t it be gone? Shouldn’t the sky go back to normal?

I was apparently the only one who thought that way, as the trepidation launched directly into raucous celebration.

A soldier trotted up to Bull, dragging my attention away from the sky. I couldn’t hear the report, couldn’t see him clearly enough to read his lips, but the grim look on the Chief’s face after he thanked the messenger sent a spike of something that might have been fear to my stomach. With no apparent hurry, his long Qunari legs took him into the Chantry, where he disappeared through the heavy double doors.

“Did you hear?” Meck asked as I sauntered towards where he and Krem had been standing next to the Chief. When I shook my head, Meck gave me a look of trepidation. “Whoever she is, the chick who fell out of the portal in Redcliffe is awake.”

“About fucking time,” I said. When I got a raised eyebrow from either of them, I waved at the celebration breaking out all around us. “If she’s awake, nobody has to be babysitting her through the party. This isn’t something to be missed.”

Krem barked a laugh as Meck happily agreed, and I tried to keep my sigh of relief internal. Holy shit this was getting hard to maintain. She was awake. She’d woken up. She’d tell them who she was and where she came from and I could come clean and everything would be okay.

I kept thinking that as Adaar – I couldn’t even _think_ of her as the Herald anymore, not with Gwen here – came back down the mountain with Cassandra and the mages. She had the same look on her face as I knew had been on mine, and I wondered what was actually missing out of this equation. Did she need Gwen to help her destroy the Breach? How did this go down in the game?

Why the bloody fuck hadn’t I played Inquisition?

It was okay, I reminded myself. Gwen was awake. She would know. She would be able to tell me.

Bull came rolling out of the Chantry a short time later, the denim-covered ass of Andraste’s chosen visible on his shoulder as he carried her at a near-sprint down the hill to where Cullen was starting to look nervous as he conferred with Leliana.

I watched as Bull set Gwen down.

I watched her cling to his harness like a stiff breeze would knock her down.

I watched them listen to Bull translate whatever it was Gwen was saying.

I watched Adaar and Cassandra come tearing ass down the hill.

I watched the color slowly leach out of everyone’s faces.

Everything happened in a rush. There was a pounding on the doors, and someone with a wide-brimmed hat stood in a pile of Venatori and the group of Inquisition advisors scattered. The Iron Bull handed Gwen off to an Antivan woman – the Ambassador Montilyet – and then he started our way.

“To arms!” Cullen shouted.

“Bull!” Gwen’s voice called. She was weak, her voice was thready, but I was never so relieved in my life as to hear her call The Chief by the diminutive of his name.

“What?” he demanded, turning on his heels.

“Clear the men away from the trebuchet after it fires!”

My panic receded another step. She knew what was going on. She knew what was going on and she would know what to do. It was going to be okay.

“What? Why?”

“The dragon will target it!”

Any relief I’d felt by her being awake and cognizant evaporated when I realized what that strangely accentless voice called to my Chief. Wasn’t she from Southie? Shouldn’t she have an accent? And _why the fuck was there a dragon targeting trebuchets_?

Bull said something in return and she smirked. “Go get ‘im, Tiger.”

Comic book nerd? Could it be? I wanted to ask if she had meant the Spider-Man reference but then the warning bells started clanging and my hand reflexively shot to my scabbarded sword.

“To arms!” Cullen shouted again.

“Chargers!” the Bull roared. “Gear up! We’re fighting our way out!”


	23. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you were very concerned about Haven.  
> 1\. This is not Higgins' Song.  
> 2\. The bloodbath in this universe doesn't show up until the very end of Steel Your Heart. No worries for awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coincides with Chapter 3 of KttS

“What’s happening, Chief?” Krem called as we dashed to our gear and stood in a line for just long enough to take a head count.

“Venatori,” Bull answered. “Tip off from the Redcliffe portal woman. Turns out she’s a little spy from the future. Knows shit she shouldn’t. Even knows about the blizzard Dalish said was brewing, and hadn’t been outside in days.”

“She say something about a dragon?” Krem pressed as we loaded up and moved into formation around the Chantry. There was an evacuation happening – people were being told to head for the Chantry – and we were guarding the doors and keeping out of the way of the Inquisition soldiery in general.

Thank God I’d given Killeen all that shit about emergency planning. They actually had contingencies to run, rather than tearing around like headless chickens.

“That Elder One asshole we heard about in Redcliffe is here, brought a pet dragon,” Bull rumbled a reply. There was something about his manner I hadn’t seen before – an _eagerness_ I didn’t know how to place. “She warned the soldiers away from the trebuchets, said the dragon would target them after they fired.”

“That’s… really specific knowledge to have,” Siren said carefully. Nobody really seemed to know what to think of the _little spy_.

Because of course they wouldn’t. Isn’t that why I kept it quiet? Who would believe that the knowledge she had of the world came from a video game? How would you even explain that? I sure as shit didn’t know how. I’d stumbled through it when I tried to tell Opie…

…nope. Not thinking about Opie.

“She thinks we’re all part of a choose-your-own-adventure story,” Bull answered, offhandedly, and my smile was covered up by several other Chargers’ laughter. _Clever girl_. “Crazy thing is, she says she doesn’t know why she’s here. Thinks she’s dreaming.”

Oh, no. Oh, no, that’s _bad_.

There were screams, then. The Commander called out a reminder about the dragon – “Eyes up! Clear the trebuchets after you fire! Partner up, keep one eye to the sky!” – and I heard the trebuchet fire. It was amazing how much we could see from the Chantry doors. Everyone with a shield stood in a ring to the front, so I had a clear view over the stockade wall into the valley.

First, Bull was starting down the hill towards the melee, having seen Adaar’s head-and-shoulders profile above Cassandra’s silhouette. We would hold the line until he got back with the Boss.

Second, there were Venatori and what looked to be Templars _everywhere_ in the Valley _._

Third, the trebuchet had brought down a part of the mountainside and there was a hell of an avalanche happening on the mountains on the south side of the valley to our west..

Fourth, that was no fucking dragon.

“Did she say it was a fucking arch demon?” I demanded as the blighted beast swooped out of the clouds.

“Nope, definitely said a dragon,” Bull called over his shoulder, almost cheerfully. “Look at it, though!" he added without slowing.

“Arch demon?” Krem asked over his shoulder.

I nodded. “Looks just like the bastard Solona and Alistair bagged in Denerim. That’s not something you forget.”

There were wounded, then; the dragon was swooping down with the intent of grabbing people but the Herald’s – _Gwen,_ I needed to remember to call her _Gwen_ still -  warning was keeping eyes up. It seemed to me that the dragon was getting frustrated at the dodging ability of the Inquisition soldiers. I watched as he plummeted out of the sky and as I tried to guess at his trajectory, realized I recognized his target.

Lieutenant Killeen waited until the last second and then dove into the space between two buildings. The dragon grabbed for her – and came back with a claw split in two, empty-handed.

It had to be an arch demon, _it had to_ be, and it leapt into the air with an ear-splitting roar of rage. He was spitting fireballs at buildings and letting the shrapnel do his work, and the Chargers without shields dashed away from the protection of our shield wall to start bringing the injured into the Chantry.

“Brownie!” Killeen howled, the name of her friend the only reason I could be sure it was her. She was out of view, but somewhere off towards the southern trebuchet. “Fuck you, I don’t care _who_ it-“

She cut off mid-sentence. Her silence was ominous, and I was practically vibrating with my need to know what was happening. But I was a Charger; I held my ground.

Rocky and Cake came trotting up a few minutes later, a rogue dangling between them, struggling for breath. Killeen was on their heels, a willowy Antivan slung across her shoulders and protesting vehemently every step of the way.

“Fuck you, and fuck Ringwold, neither one of you sons of bitches is dying on me, you fucking hear me?”

“Put me _down_ , I can fucking walk, Killer,” the man she had in a fireman’s carry argued as she shouldered between Krem and I to storm into the Chantry. 

“Right, which is why you’ve got three inches of femur sticking out of your thigh.”

“I’ve got a second leg, asshole!” the Antivan with a Fereldan accent countered as they disappeared into the building. Killeen was back a few minutes later, steaming mad and with sword drawn.

“I’ll take the rest of your fucking claw you giant winged sack of shit,” she growled, half to herself, as she pushed back through our line and charged off into the now-burning Haven.

“I think I feel bad for the dragon,” Meck quipped. We all laughed – the Inquisition Lieutenant was already well-known by the Chargers.

There were soldiers spilling into the Chantry now, and the Commander pushed us into the building, as Adaar and a few scant others came charging up the hill. Killeen appeared to the north, dragging the quartermaster and seeming to be no worse for wear. I released a breath of relief I didn’t know I was holding.

“In! Get in the Chantry! Go!” Cullen was shooing everyone into the building like a shepherd with goats.

“Inside!” Bull echoed. We immediately broke ranks for the Chief; it did nothing to endear us to Cullen. I took two steps towards Lieutenant Killeen and gestured for her to get behind my shield. The dragon was coming around, making a wide arc in the air to face the Chantry and rain destruction through the still-open doors.

“Come on, come on, come on,” I urged. Siren dashed forward, grabbed the quartermaster’s other arm, and the three women propelled themselves into the Chantry. I backed in behind them, shield up to block. Bull got to the doors just as I got through and Adaar and Cullen tumbled through on Cassandra’s heels, the door booming shut behind them.

Krem had us assemble for another head count – all present and accounted for – and then we mobilized to take on as much extra weight as each of us could carry. There were endless supplies to cart out of the Chantry in the rapidly expanding call to evacuate.

“Get a head count,” Cullen snapped to Lieutenant Killeen, who saluted and then vanished. Bull was looming behind him, and I stayed within ear shot as the Chargers formed a chain gang to toss supplies out of storage, across the Chantry, and amass in a pile near to the door we planned to escape through. Everybody who was hale could grab as much as they could carry on their way out.

“Do we have the supplies to feed and shelter this many survivors on a forced march?” the Chief asked as softly as a Qunari could manage.

Cullen shook his head as he shrugged. “It’s a problem I will gladly take.”

Gwen gives the Inquisition a warning, more people survive the loss of Haven, so instead they starve to death on the road? It wasn’t exactly the butterfly effect, but it was an unsettling concept regardless. Were the people who died in Haven _supposed_ to die, to give the rest enough supplies to make the trip to… wherever we were going?

Where the fuck _were_ we going?

Why the hell hadn’t I played Inquisition? Past Me was a _dick_.

“Still alive, little spy?” the boss asked, breaking my reverie as he strode through our line and addressed the woman consuming my thoughts.

“Much to your chagrin, I suppose,” she shot back. “How did we hold up?”

I remembered just in time that I wasn’t supposed to be fluent in Qunlat – in English, as far as she was concerned. I focused on not paying attention; that would be the easier solution.

“She’s been in the infirmary,” Krem told me, blatantly eavesdropping. “She’s worried that her being here… she wonders if it will _fuck up the timeline_ , I think she said.”

“She saved people by giving us the warning about the dragon, right?” I countered, catching a bag of tent poles he tossed and turning slightly to toss it to Siren, the chain continuing to unload the quartermaster’s stores.

“Yeah,” Krem agreed, catching another bag of poles from Meck and passing it on to me.

“So,” I said as I caught it, “what happens if too many people survived and there’s not enough food for us all?”

“You mean, maybe some of the people who lived were supposed to die?” Siren countered.

“Shit’s dark, Twitch,” Meck chided.

“He’s got a point,” Krem argued. “There were only a few dozen deaths out there, and word is she saved another dozen in the infirmary who normally would have died. Stitches was in there; I heard his report to the Boss. She put a piece of metal in Ringwold’s lung, fixed a sucking chest wound.”

 _She was a medic_. I didn’t know if she was a nurse or a doctor but she was American medical personnel. She was going to save a _lot_ of people who might otherwise die. She might break Thedas if she didn’t figure out she wasn’t dreaming.

And that was my job, wasn’t it? I was supposed to help her find her place, see to it she was accepted, _protect her_. What if I was supposed to protect her from herself?

Jesus table-flipping Christ, why hadn’t I been planning this for the last ten years instead of sticking my fucking head in the sand?

“Yeah, but there’s almost no spirit healers left,” Siren countered. “We know that from all the mages we picked up on bounty. Maybe she’s going to counter the loss of magical healing.”

“Shit’s beyond me,” Meck sighed.

“Boss said she thought she was dreaming?” I carefully asked Krem, who nodded.

“He thinks she’s from the future?” I pressed. Krem nodded again.

“What a scary fucking dream,” Siren said sadly, and I muffled another sigh of relief. They were making this too easy. Was it me _wanting_ them to accept her? “Can you imagine _this_ nightmare?”

Krem and Meck were both shaking their heads and I followed suit.

“Man, what do we do?” Meck whispered as, presumably, we all tried to put ourselves in her shoes.

 _Take her in. Take her in. Take her in. Take her in._ The thought repeated in time with my frantic heartbeat. If the Chargers took over watching Gwen, I could do my job by default, and figure the details out later.

“She needs to stick with someone who speaks Qunlat,” Krem said slowly, as if thinking hard. “We should suggest to the Chief that we take her in.”

Bloody fuck, it worked.

“Chief would probably like to keep an eye on her anyways,” Siren agreed, as Meck nodded thoughtfully. “Pump her for information. Keep her interactions with the Boss limited until we know what she’s about.”

“I think that’s exactly what the Chief would want,” Meck affirmed.

“What would the Chief want?” the man in question demanded as he approached Krem’s place in the line. We hadn’t paused once in our passing of supplies during the conversation.

“Keep an eye on the little spy,” Krem answered immediately. “You’ve taught me a lot of Qunlat, Chief. I could help you figure her out.”

“She’s going to pass out here in a bit,” Bull said, turning to look at where she stood, apparently talking to Cullen with the help of the kid in the big hat. “Once the adrenaline wears out she’ll be face first in the snow. She’s no problem to anybody when that happens.”

“How many people do you think she saved with her warning?” Siren asked, a bit sharply.

The Iron Bull slowly turned a fixed a piercing sort of stare at Siren, but she met his gaze without flinching.

“You can’t think to let her die in the blizzard after she’s saved so many people already.”

“I can,” Bull countered, a bit incredulously, and my heart stuttered a beat. He’d split me in half if he thought I was fucking with the Chargers. _Half_.

“But you won’t, Chief,” Krem laughed. “You old softie. I saw you carry her out of the Chantry.”

“That was strictly the fastest way to-” he started, but Krem continued to laugh. The Iron Bull sighed. “Fine. Keep her out of the snow, Krem.”

Krem stepped out of line just as Commander Cullen called for everybody to get out of the Chantry. There were more supplies to take, but not enough time to take them; the storeroom was locked up with the hope somebody could come back and collect the rest. The Chargers each had their own gear, but with the exception of Krem and I, everybody picked up extra weight from the pile by the exit. I followed Krem to where Gwen was sticking close to Dorian and the kid with the hat, near to some Chantry Chancellor with a soon-to-be-fatal stab wound.

“Grab her pack,” I told Krem as we got close, and he nodded and plucked the sack – which turned out to be full of bandages – off her back. He tossed them to me – Gwen’s eye followed them and for one brief second she was looking at _me_ , her eyes tracing the line of my scar and taking my measure before Krem bent, swept her knees out from under her, and tossed her over his shoulder.

“The fuck-“ she began, and I bit back a laugh as I mentally thanked Andraste for sending me a charge with a potty mouth.

“Chief says you’re running on empty,” Krem told her, in the most Qunlat I’d ever heard from him in one time.

She seemed to think about it for a minute. “Krem?” she guessed. She was good.

“That a good guess?” Krem countered slowly. “Or are you really what the Chief said?”

“That depends on what the Chief said,” she fired back as she fought for some semblance of dignity. She propped her elbow in a ridge in Krem’s armor and pushed herself parallel to the ground, rather than dangle upside-down. “I’m not a spy. I’m definitely a wiseass. And I have no idea what the relationship is between where I came from and where I am.”

Fuckety fuck fuck. When Andraste brought me here, I immediately knew where I was and why. Was it the head wound? Had she lost the memory? How much did she know?

Was this the way it was meant to be? It couldn’t. How could I protect her when she didn’t know who she was supposed to be?

Krem laughed at her assertion. “He called you a… little spy… from the future. He neglected the wiseass part. And he also didn’t mention… you’re a lot heavier than you look.”

“Never tell a woman that, Krem,” she chided.

I let Krem’s laugh cover my own as we passed out of the narrow passageway and into the beginnings of the blizzard beyond.  She didn’t have much more to say past that, as she was definitely worse for wear and having a hard time hanging on to consciousness. I could have sworn she passed out three or four times on the walk, and didn’t seem to have any grasp of time.

Not that there was much to have. We were walking through the mountains, in heavy snow. We stayed close to the people in front of us, made sure the people behind us were following, and settled in to endure the suck.

It was six hours of suck, all told. The snow was thick and ugly by the time we stopped, and Krem handed her off to Grim and took over command. Bull was off – somewhere, I had no clue where – but ultimately it didn’t matter. Krem always knew what the Chief wanted.

I went looking for food –  finding success immediately with the sapper, Coffee, who was always ready and willing to feed people and free with his personal stores – and came up with some trail rations to press into Gwen’s cold fingers. She thanked me quietly and then frowned at the meat before tentatively nibbling it. I grinned when I realized that coming from Coffee, it was probably nug.

Welcome to Thedas, Gwen.

“We got a tent,” Siren announced, dropping her burden in the snow in our midst. “It’ll be a tight fit but we’ll make due.”

“It’s warmer when you snuggle,” Meck announced, and even Grim chuckled as we all dove into the set up of the shelter. Our individual bedrolls were thrown into the middle and our packs lined the wall. We’d have to sleep head to foot to make it work, but we’d definitely make it work.

“Got more work to do,” Krem said to Grim and I. “What do we do with her?”

“Stick her in the bedrolls,” I shrugged. “She’s going to pass out anyways. Might as well leech some warmth out of her.”

Grim snorted and then nodded at Krem.

Krem shook his head with a laugh, and put his hands out to take the bewildered woman from Grim.

“We’ve got a lot to do to make sure people survive the night,” he told her as he ducked into the tent. “Can we trust you to stay here and rest until we come back?”

“That sounds like forty gallons of awesome in a ten-gallon hat,” she replied and I fought again to school my reaction. No way Krem knew what a ten-gallon hat was.

“Whatever you say, Lady,” Krem agreed easily. He reappeared a moment later.

“Already half-asleep,” he laughed. “If she’s moved by the time we get back I’ll pay you each a silver.”

“Safest bet I’ve heard in months,” Rocky laughed.

“Come on, we’ve got work to do,” Krem said, jerking his chin towards the rest of the encampment.

I risked a backwards glance at the tent holding the person my entire life revolved around.

I had no idea how I was going to manage any of this.

I resolved to put my head down and hope it all just worked itself out.


	24. Charger Central

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our protagonists chill out in a tent and chat.  
> Subtitle: Shit Gets Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overlaps with Chapter 4 of Keep to the Stars

The next morning dawned cold and hard. We were jammed in the tent head-to-feet and the body heat generated by three dozen Chargers, one Qunari, and one apparently highly exothermic _little spy_  created an almost painful contrast to the frozen ground the tent was set upon. We hadn’t gotten much for ground cover between the tent and the icy soil, which meant almost everyone spent the whole night slowly spinning to warm up whatever side had been pressed to the floor.

Nobody slept well, so we made up for it by sleeping late.

Well. Nobody but _Gwen_. Crammed as she was between Bull and Krem, and having slept on the stone floor of the Haven Chantry for four days prior, she didn’t move except when roused by activity. Bull’s arrival that morning with the news of Adaar’s return had woken her up for a short while – and, luckily, me as well. I’d eavesdropped on their conversation about how Adaar had gotten through the blizzard, unsurprised by the revelation that Gwen had foretold almost every detail.

The part I needed to hear was the bit at the end of the brief conversation.

“You’re something else, little spy,” the Boss muttered as he pulled his long form into his bigger-than-average bedroll.

“I’m not a spy. My name is _Gwen_.”

I breathed an audible sigh of relief, confident it would be hidden in the snores and semi-conscious mumblings of my fellows.  Her name was the final confirmation I’d needed. I drifted back off to sleep, content with the knowledge she was burrowed between Bull and Krem, and as safe as anyone could be.

I was the third one awake that afternoon; Krem’s careful detangling from Gwen on one side and Siren on the other causing me to get kicked in the head – twice – by Grim. I pulled myself out of my bedroll using the space Krem had just vacated and then ducked out of the tent into the snow.

It was definitely still snowing, but there are some things that can carry through even a blizzard.

The smell of fresh baked bread is one of them.

“I don’t need the porridge,” I told the brunette running the line at the impromptu kitchen. “Or the tea, or really anything but the bread. One for each Charger, plus two, and we’ll keep to our own rations for the rest of the day.”

The elf grinned at me in relief. “You might have just made the difference in whether or not anybody went hungry today, sirrah.”

“Happy to serve. Now, about that bread?”

She loaded me up with the rolls freshest from the stacked-stone, temporary bread oven and a heavy flour sack to carry them in, and even blew me a kiss as I made my way back to Charger Central.

I was cheered as I reentered the tent, the smell of fresh bread arriving before me. I pressed a roll into Gwen’s hands, handed two to the Chief, and then started tossing the rest around the tent from a spot in the middle, near to my fellow earthling.

“I have a lot of names to learn,” Gwen said softly to Krem. I was getting better at not responding to what she said, but I knew I was likely as bad at hiding my reactions now as I had been in Denerim.

“The one with the bread is Twitch,” Krem answered, and I couldn’t help turning my head at my name. “In your language it means _twitch_.”

Gwen snorted a laugh. “Love it. How’d he get it?”

“He’s a Blight Veteran from Denerim,” Krem softly replied, meeting my eye with a gentle smile as if to reassure me that he wasn’t saying anything derogatory in a language he didn’t know I understood. “We don’t really ask what people lived through before they became Chargers.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she breathed, and I went back to throwing rolls, not sure I could hide a smile at her turn of phrase. “I’d be twitchy, too. Fair play to him.”

Krem was pointing out different Chargers, giving their names and one-or-two sentence descriptors of their backgrounds, as well as translations of their names when applicable.

Daft, the best tracker we had, from Gwaren, whose name came from his little brother misunderstanding his father’s criticism.

Siren, the Fereldan fighter from Highever, and _don’t ever let her sing_ , Maker’s Breath.

One and Two, the brother/sister team from Cumberland and the newest members of the Band, having signed on the last time we’d passed through Jader.

Meck, the Marcher who was the only man ballsy enough to wield a warhammer in a band led by Bull.

Squirrel’s name gave Gwen an honest case of the giggles and had everybody grinning.

But then Dalish dropped a handful of dried fruit in Gwen’s upturned hand and she stopped listening to Krem. She seemed entranced by the elf, and everybody noticed.

Dalish finished her round with the fruit bowl and dropped onto a short pile of bedrolls near Krem. “If she’s got a problem with elves, better she have it out with me than Skinner catch wind of it.”

“She wants to know if you have a problem with her,” Krem told her in his accented Qunlat. One of the Chief’s eyebrow went up at the unfaithful translation, but ultimately it was a harmless white lie.

“I have never actually seen vallaslin before,” she said, and the elven word managed to have the perfect inflection. Ooh, she was _such_ a fangirl. “It’s breathtaking. I knew it was beautiful, but to _see_ it is something else. I am admiring, and do not mean offense.”

“You’re her first Dalish elf,” Krem told our mage. “She is admiring your vallaslin. She says she means no offense.”

I schooled my expression clear. Bull was watching Krem with a critical eye but seemed more amused than aught else. Gwen was smiling at Dalish, who was feeling the full force of modern dentistry for the first time. I ran my tongue over my own teeth, grateful for that fight in the Pearl during the job for _The Antivan Princess_ that chipped one and ruined my own perfect smile.

I pulled my attention back to Gwen, who was waxing poetic on the capabilities of Dalish, when Bull interrupted her.

“Careful,” he said, the first time he’d spoken so far that day, having been content to stay stretched out on the floor of the tent and watch the antics of his Chargers. “You’ll get labeled an elf-lover.”

Krem wasn’t translating, so I pretended I wasn’t listening, much like everybody else was.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Some humans develop an… _unhealthy_ fascination with elves.”

“Ugh, like a child molester or something?”

“Something like that,” Bull chuckled with a glance to Skinner. The comparison wasn’t a good one, really.

“No, my husband was _male_ and _human_ ,” Gwen said, and I felt that pang again. She was a widow, there was no way she wasn’t, and there was no way I could tell her. “I just… don’t think race is an acceptable measure of a person. Anyone can be a piece of shit, regardless of their height, ears, horns, or humanity.”

Bull roared with laughter, which startled everyone into demanded a translation from Krem. He struggled through it a bit – God, I could be doing so much good right now if they only knew – but managed to convey the jist of the joke.

“Do you think she’ll talk to us about what she knows?” Daft asked the Lieutenant.

“She seems pretty chipper,” Krem said with a shrug. “She might.”

“She knew what was going to happen in Haven,” Siren pressed. “Does she know the future?”

“And why?” Rocky added. “Why does she know _our_ future? Do we win?”

“Does she just know the big stuff?” Skinner chimed in, surprised everyone. “Or does she know about… well, us?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Krem laughed, putting up his hands.

“Gwen?” he asked, leaning towards the newcomer.

“What’s up?”

I had my head down, so my smile went unremarked upon.

“Are you willing to answer some questions? The Chargers are…. Curious isn’t a strong enough word.”

“Avid,” Bull agreed, in his native tongue, and I looked up in time to see Gwen grinning her agreement. “You translate, Krem, the practice will be good for you.”

I ducked my head again, needing to keep my amusement hidden. The Chief knew I knew a bit of Qunlat, but he didn’t know I’d remembered, wouldn’t ever put me on the spot. If he sees me laughing at his jabs, though, I’d get thrown on the carpet immediately.

Krem struggled through several questions, including Gwen’s clever description of the video game she’d undoubtedly spent hundreds of hours playing, rendering it down to no more than a very complicated choose-your-own-adventure book. She confirmed she had no idea how she came to be here, and then started describing our world. I laid on my stomach on a bedroll, dropping my head into my arms as I listened, content that nobody who could see my face would spare a moment’s attention from Gwen.

The homesickness was overwhelming. She described airplanes and modern agriculture and _cell phones_ and I suddenly wondered what condition my own phone was in, stuffed into a gap in a stone wall in an alley in Denerim. Thinking of my cell phone reminded me of the little velvet box and its precious contents, and I realized the gold alone would make me a very rich man.

But it was supposed to be on Cindy’s finger, and the wave of guilt from _forgetting her_ nearly choked me.

“I went to school for four more years,” Gwen was saying, the Chief having taken up the translation from an outclassed Krem, and giving a real-time accurate rendering of Gwen’s words. Not that I needed the Chief’s rumble to know what Gwen was saying. “I became a nurse – a healer, here – and then got married. Patrick, my husband, went to the military and was sent to war. He went back to school to become a teacher, and that’s when I met him.”

Right there. Right there, that was the difference. That was the problem. She came right out and told everyone about Patrick, told us about her world and the things she loved. She’d already given Patrick more honor than I could ever scrape up for Cindy.

God, maybe it was good she died before she could see what kind of coward I could become.

“What does a war look like, in a world like that?” Meck asked. Krem translated it faithfully.

“Many countries,” she answered slowly, “the major countries, the _superpowers_ , have weapons that can destroy entire cities. Hundreds of thousands of people, dead in an instant. If they don’t kill you right away, they’re also poison, and they will kill you slowly, terribly. And if you don’t get a big enough dose to kill you within a few weeks or months, you will get sick when you get older, and die horribly _then_. We agree not to use them, but keep them around as a deterrent to the others.”

I closed my eyes and focused on breathing.

It was that, or puke.

The irony was unbearable. _She didn’t know why she was here_. She didn’t remember the Choice, didn’t remember Andraste, didn’t remember being trapped somewhere south of Boston and opting to leave the planet and start over, an indentured servant to a demigod. It couldn’t be a ruse, a ploy for self-preservation; there was no way she could speak so calmly of a nuclear holocaust if she remembered she’d narrowly escaped one. She wouldn’t believe in the deterrence of Mutually Assured Destruction if she knew her city, her _coast_ , was destroyed by nuclear detonations.

I could not be the one to puncture her innocence. It was entirely possible she could live out her life without ever knowing that she left her loved ones behind to die in all the horrible ways she’d just outlined to the shocked-silent Chargers.

She was still talking, describing the wonders of earth to amazed and amused Thedosians, but I couldn’t listen. It was too much to bear, too much to try to keep off my face. I ducked out of the tent into the snow, trudging to the edge of the camp to dig a latrine and clear my head.

I couldn’t tell her. I physically couldn’t. Even if she would believe me – and I couldn’t guarantee she would – I couldn’t shake the idea that perhaps she was _meant to_ forget. Maybe forgetting really was the only protection against a Truth like that one.

Maybe it hadn’t been _cowardice_ on my own part, that made me forget.

Maybe I was only doing for myself what Andraste had done for Gwen.

Maybe the decision to let ignorance be protection was a kindness for us both.

Maybe I needed to forgive myself for forgetting, and come up with a better way to deal with the return of the knowledge.

Maybe I needed to start coming up with a plan to protect Gwen in case she ever remembered… and a plan in case she didn’t.

I wandered back into the tent, half frozen, just as the sun dipped below the horizon and dragged the temperature down with it. Gwen was huddled in her bedroll, looking haunted even in her sleep. It solidified my decision, stiffening my shoulders with resolve.

If she remembered, it wouldn’t be because of anything I told her.

And if I wasn’t the one to tell her about the loss of her world, then I wasn’t going to tell her I shared in her grief.

To Gwen, I would just be Twitch the Charger.

Just Twitch.


	25. Pride Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, getting to write the other half of the conversations, the bits Gwen couldn't understand? It is stupidly satisfying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUESS WHAT  
> I finally got the hi-res version of the cover art Grimmcake made to post correctly!   
> Click over to Chapter 1 for CakeArt!

Gwen was nowhere to be found the next day, having ducked out of the tent before anyone but Bull was awake. Word got out that she was getting lessons in Common from Cole and formally meeting Adaar and sorting out her place in the world.  It gave us ample opportunity to talk about her in her absence.

“Can you imagine?” Skinner asked, laying on her back on a bedroll and tossing an empty wineskin idly in the air. “Waking up in a fairy story, with no idea how you got there?”

“What would you do?” Squirrel asked, perched on a beer barrel we planned to empty that night. “If you woke up someplace out of legend? If you woke up in _Arlathen_ or something?”

_I’d lie_ , I thought. _I’d lie and create an entirely new person and hide from who I was_.

It was very hard to feel something other than shame, in light of how Gwen had reacted. I could have gone to Kirkwall and tried to save people. I could have gone with Solona to Amaranthine and tried to change Anders’ mind. I could have _faced the peril_ , rather than turn away and declare it _too perilous_.

I could have run out of the Chantry and warned everyone of the doom to come, knowing full well they wouldn’t believe me. I could have done what Gwen had done.

Where would my life be if I had?

Would I have met Opie?

Would I still have Opie around? Would she have gotten out of Denerim? Would she have run to Amaranthine? Would she have survived?

Would she have left for Val Royeaux, or would she have stayed with the Chargers? With me?

“I don’t think it’s _what would we do_ that’s the question,” I interrupted whoever was speaking. It was out of character for me, and drew the rest of the tent into immediate silence. “I think the question is, what would our mothers do? Our baby sisters? She’s a noncombatant. She’s helpless here.”

Daft – who had been drafting a story of derring-do – shut his mouth with an audible click.

Several others – Siren and Meck among them – started shifting uncomfortably as they considered my point.

“My mom would die,” Siren said into the silence. “She would probably lay right down and die.”

“My kid sister would have gotten herself killed within hours,” Meck said, shaking his head. “She talks big but doesn’t have anything to back it up.”

“If she had the kind of knowledge Gwen has,” Squirrel said slowly, “my mother would freeze. She would have sat in the cell with Bull and frozen up and then cried. The knowledge of the death and destruction and fear… she would have just cried.”

“Maker,” Stitches breathed. “I didn’t think about it like that, but the girl’s made of some tough stuff.”

“Saw more people running screaming in the Blight than standing and fighting, it’s true,” Daft said, nodding to me. I nodded back as if I knew. “She’s a rare breed.”

“She’s got nobody,” Siren added. “Nobody to write to, nobody who understands. Andraste’s asshole, she can only even talk to two or three people!”

“Besides Adaar, everybody who can talk to her is a Charger,” Krem said, straightening his shoulders as if coming to some conclusion. “We’ve got to protect her. She’s helpless, and she’s a target.”

_Yes._

“Like she’s our Ma,” Grim added, and we all turned to stare at him, full stop. He shrugged.

“Charger Mom,” Siren mused. “Do you think she’ll go with it?”

Krem grinned at her. “I don’t think we’re going to give her a choice.”

Ma – as we all referred to her now, by silent agreement – rolled back into the tent at sunset, shivering and grinning. She had almost a dozen Common words in her vocabulary already, and I couldn’t help but be a bit bitter about how much faster she was learning the language than I did.

Another point to honesty over subterfuge.

We cleared out of the tent at dawn, and while half the Chargers dropped the tent and the other half went looking for more work to be done in the Inquisition camp, I dropped to the ground behind Gwen, ducked my head between her knees, and stood up with her now perched on my shoulders.

“Fuck! Fucking fuck- augh! _Warn a girl_ ,” she spluttered, and I let myself laugh. Her intent was clear with her tone alone, and everybody knew _fuck_ in Qunlat. We were Chargers, after all.

I stood in the chain gang that was passing gear with her on my shoulders, and could feel the chill leeching out of her from her under-protective clothes. The Chargers cheered and Bull laughed, tousling her hair on the way by, so she threaded her hands together on the top of my head and accepted her fate with good grace.

I set her down as we started to march, confident she wouldn’t get lost or left behind now that we were on the move. I didn’t have to keep an eye on her for long, because before she’d taken ten steps on her own, Siren swooped in and pulled Gwen off her feet as I had. Gwen made this adorable squeak of a sound, cursed until she was out of breath, and then laughed.

When she was on Grim’s shoulders awhile later, Krem explained to her the new position in the Chargers she’d been given – or rather, he tried to.

“So I’m the adoptive Mom of the Chargers?” she asked before Krem could reach that conclusion.

“There are worse things to be,” Krem laughed his confirmation.

“Tell me about her,” Sera said, coming to my side out of the press of people unexpectedly.

“Tell you about who?”

“The fortune-teller-faker-face,” Sera answered, dipping her chin to indicate Gwen.

“You think she’s a fake?” I asked. I tried to ignore the feel of relief at Sera’s reaction. She would have thought the same of me all those years ago in Denerim if I’d tried to say I was somebody with knowledge of the future. Then again, if I’d been honest then, would she have an easier time accepting Gwen now?

“Come on. You don’t?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have any reason to doubt her. She’s been right in everything so far.”

Sera shook her head, plainly disappointed in me.

“Go ask her,” I challenged.

“Go ask her what?”

“Anything. Ask her to prove she is what she is. If she knows who you are, she’ll be able to tell you something nobody else knows.”

Sera frowned at me for a minute and then slowly started to nod her head. “I’ll think about it, yeah?”

I shrugged again. “I don’t care what you do. Believe her or don’t, that’s not on me.”

She grunted and disappeared.

I had the conversation a dozen times over the day, and overheard it countless times more as people approached the Chargers and asked about Gwen. What should we call her? What’s her story? Is she real?

For what it was worth, Gwen was accepted by us and listened to by Hellen, and that seemed to be enough for her. She spent most of the afternoon on the Chief’s shoulders, chatting away happily and honestly I’d never seen Bull smile as much as he did with his _little spy_ perched with her elbows resting in the crook of his horns. If nobody else believed her, she didn’t seem to care.

Much later in the afternoon, after procuring her freedom from Bull and disappearing for a bit under the premise of stretching her legs, Gwen was approached by Krem. Sera had found the Lieutenant and asked for his help in posing a question to Gwen. I surreptitiously followed, wanting to know how the exchange went without having to outright ask.

As soon as Gwen saw Krem coming, though, she cut loose a laugh that was more accurately described as a giggle and then darted into the crowd.

“Wait!” Krem ordered, in the wrong language, all command lost from his voice when her giggle proved infectious. “Little fucking imp, I just want to ask you a damn question!” He gave chase, grunting curses as she proved far more dexterous than any of us suspected. “For fuck’s sake, _stop_.”

There was a _wump_ and a grunt somewhere out of sight, and I bit back a laugh as I found her before Krem did. Seems the _little imp_ had run full-bore into Commander Cullen.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to get away from Krem,” she said, smiling up into his visage, saying the polite thing even knowing he couldn’t understand her.

“I hope you didn’t injure yourself on my armor,” Cullen responded with obvious concern. “But the only word that I understood out of all of that was _Krem_.”

“There you are, damnit,” Krem said, emerging out of the crowd to snag Gwen around the waist and toss her over his shoulder.

“No, I want to _walk_ ,” she protested. She was learning Common, though, and she remembered to use it. “No,” she said, forcefully. I imagined she would have stomped her foot if she’d been upright.

“I was just trying to get you and Sera together,” Krem told her patiently in Qunlat. “She wanted to talk to you.”

“Lieutenant Aclassi,” Cullen barked, and Krem stopped mid-step. “It is rarely commendable to throw a woman over your shoulder and haul her away while she is _clearly_ protesting your actions.”

“She’s in no danger from me, Commander,” Krem reassured him as he turned to face the former Templar. “I’m only fetching her for a conversation.”

“Regardless, I do believe the lady said _no_ ,” Cullen pressed. There was no civility in his tone.

Given the man had been in charge of one of the unruliest forces of Templars in Thedas, this had the potential to turn very bad for Krem very quick. I took a half-step forward, willing to out myself as a native English speaker if it meant Krem didn’t get shit-canned by Cullen.

“Ha!” Gwen crowed, piecing together the conversation from tone of voice and facial expression. She was dangling comically behind Krem, peering upside-down at Cullen. “Defending my honor! Take that, Cremisius!”

Cullen’s seriousness faded a step in the face of Gwen’s broad smile.

“Augh, you’re trouble today,” Krem told her, before switching back to Common to address the Commander. “I’m one of only three people who can translate for her, ser, so there isn’t anybody else to fetch her. She’s just being impish.”

“Impish or not, the lady said _no_.”

“Is the little spy causing trouble?” Bull asked, appearing on the scene. I backed out of the way, my potential interference now unnecessary. He turned and asked Gwen more or less the same question in Qunlat as he lifted her easily off Krem’s shoulder and set her upright on his own.

She gave him an honest reply – that she’d been feeling playful, _happy even_ , and just wanted to run a bit.

“Tell the Commander that Krem did you no harm,” Bull insisted.

“Put me down and I’ll do you one better.”

The Chief leaned down and set her on her feet, and she threw herself at Krem. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him – loudly – on the cheek. My laugh was lost in the Chief’s as Krem awkwardly fended her off and made a show of wiping off his face.

“Thank you,” she pronounced, badly accented but comprehensible, to Cullen.

He seemed utterly charmed. “You’re quite welcome,” he replied, eyes widening in surprise.

She grinned at him – which was plainly dazzling to the poor bastard – and then turned to thread her arm through Krem’s to encourage him to lead her off for this chat with Sera.

With Krem grumbling about what a pain in the ass she was, Bull closed ranks with the Commander. “Krem will keep her safe, Cullen, you need-“

“I cannot help but follow up when a woman says _no_ ,” Cullen interrupted. “You know enough about me to understand why. Never on my watch; never again.”

“Fair,” Bull allowed, putting a hand out in a show of truce. Cullen shook it and the two men nodded at each other.

“We’ll be better off when she learns Common,” Cullen continued. “Leliana is on edge around her, and that was before she started dashing through the column and pranking Krem.”

“Cole’s working on it,” Bull told him. “Me and the Chargers will keep an eye on her, if you are willing to trust her with me.”

Cullen cocked an eyebrow. “I never said-“

“I’m one-eyed, not blind.”

“Fair enough. As long as you recognize the reasonableness of the suspicion.”

“Of course I do.”

“What was that?” I asked the Chief after Cullen nodded and walked away.

The Iron Bull glanced down at me and shrugged. “We set up the Inquisitor to meet and hire us – hire _me_. Then we’re set upon by Vints. Then a Qunlat-speaking spy appears out of thin air? Anybody would be an idiot not to get suspicious of me. The Nightingale is definitely not an idiot.”

“Huh. I guess I didn’t think of it that way.”

“No? You asked if she was one of mine.”

“Right, but that’s me. When you said no, I believed you.”

“Of course you did. _You’re_ one of mine.”

“Say what?”

Bull tousled my hair. “You’re a Charger, kid. You’re my people.”

I grinned up at him and then he was gone, off talking to Krem or Adaar or Gwen, and I made my way back to the rest of the Chargers in the column.

“Sera just got completely unnerved by Gwen and vanished,” Dalish reported as I fell into step with her and Grim.

“Yeah? What did Gwen say?”

“Pride cookies,” Dalish answered.

“The fuck?”

She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. You were friends with her in Denerim.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t _that_ close. I have no idea what pride cookies are.”

“Must be why it worked,” Krem said, slowing down to join us. Siren was plucking Gwen out of the snow to sit on her shoulders again, and Gwen seemed to have burned through her still-limited reserves of stamina and was grudgingly accepting the help. “If she’d said something Twitch knew about, Sera could accuse him of having told her.”

“How?” Dalish countered. “Did Twitch learn fluent Qunlat and get Gwen alone to tell her all the deepest darkest secrets of Sera’s past _just in case_?”

“There is so much wrong with that sentence,” I laughed, grateful that she didn’t stop with _did Twitch learn fluent Qunlat_ and I could agree without lying.

We all piled into the same tent again that night, although we were getting used to the close quarters and honestly it was better than freezing. Gwen dragged her bedroll over from the doorway where they were all stacked and burrowed her way between Bull and Krem while Cremisius laughed and the Chief pretended not to notice.

“Fuck you, it’s warmer right here,” she scoffed.

“You put off more heat than a furnace, I’m not complaining,” Krem countered.

“Just keep your feet out of my armpits tonight and we’ll be good,” Bull rumbled, and her delighted laugh brought smiles to the face of every Charger awake to hear it.

“Good night, Ma,” I called softly as she stopped moving. The words were echoed by a dozen mouths across the tent, and after a moment her broken Common answered, “Good night.”

I didn’t have to hide my smile when everybody else was grinning, too.

This might be easier than I thought.


	26. Painful Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Twitch comes clean, one way or the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot to update today! If that isn't an indication of how busy I am, I'm not sure what is.

It was incredible to watch Gwen during the long walk, as we took to calling it. She came to the tent every night with new vocabulary, and she wanted to practice every word she’d learned with us. By the end of the third day we’d all talked with her; they were mostly shitty single-word call-and-answer type conversations, but she met every Charger’s eye, learned every Charger’s name, and told each of us whatever it was she’d learned that day.

“Twitch!” she said, grinning to beat the band. I smiled and nodded. “Boots,” she laughed, pointing at her feet to show me the more waterproof footwear Cole had dug up for her somewhere.

“Those are boots, Gwen, yes,” I agreed, and she echoed “those are boots,” as she scrunched her face into a frown of deep thought. It was like dealing with a two-year-old at first; she was so _damn happy_ to learn new words and communicate with us. At least, it was like that for everybody who didn’t speak any Qunlat. Anyone who was bilingual got to hear the real Gwen, the educated American trauma nurse, as she laughed at herself and willfully swallowed her pride while publicly struggling to learn a language.

I had learned Common over the course of years, and refused to speak until my accent was gone. I had dreaded being seen the way Gwen was portraying herself.

 _Genuinely_ , I chided myself. _She’s being honest. You hid and you lied_.

Was I wrong?

Was I wrong about _everything_?

There wasn’t much for us to do besides walk and chat, which meant everyone had plenty of time to be lost in thought. Mine were decidedly less pleasant than I would have liked, but the morning before we crested the last pass to discover our destination, I reached a conclusion.

Gwen was accepted. She was safe. She was apparently happy. The Chargers rallied around her, Cullen seemed enamored of her, and Hellen – Hellen Adaar, the biggest threat of them all – seemed the most relaxed I’d ever seen her.

“Remember what you were saying,” I mentioned casually to Bull as we finished breaking camp and began the process of getting everyone moving up the mountain again, “about Adaar needing something to believe in?”

The Iron Bull shot me a look that would have been threatening were it aimed at anybody who wasn’t a Charger. For me, it just meant I’d surprised him.

“I do. What of it?”

I tipped my chin at the Boss, who was currently leaning over slightly to listen to whatever it was Gwen was telling her. Hellen’s left hand was palm-up, and Gwen’s relatively tiny hand was gripping one of the Tal’Vashoth’s long fingers as she spoke; completely unperturbed by the anchor _right there_.

Bull followed my gaze, watching the exchange end with happy laughter on both part; Hellen tousled Gwen’s hair before striding away. Gwen scowled comically, reaching up to straighten her braid before turning suddenly and extending a hand to Cole, who led her a different direction in the crowd. The Iron Bull slowly turned and regarded me; I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

“What are you thinking, Twitch?”

I shrugged. “She knows the future, right? We’re not sure how, or why, but she does. Pretty obvious, that. And she says the future can change, right? Like what Adaar saw in Redcliffe? And Adaar sees the Qun and the Chantry both as slavery, as a mage. I don’t know, Chief, it just seems like Gwen is offering Hellen exactly what she needs... something to believe in, that she has some control over.”

The Iron Bull blinked once, rather slowly, and then nodded thoughtfully. “I like where your head’s at.”

He patted my shoulder and then strode away, and I was alone with my thoughts once more.

I couldn’t get behind the idea that the ends justified the means. In a way, that would make the nuclear destruction of my home forgivable, since it brought Gwen here to presumably save Thedas. But maybe, given I had managed to get Gwen accepted into at least a portion of the Inquisition, and position her in a place where she was relatively safe and cared for, maybe everything I’d done hadn’t been wrong. Maybe I’d done what I was supposed to.

But, more importantly, there was no changing it. I’d chosen to forget my world, my identity. The decision had paid off, but I needed to accept it and deal with the consequences.

My problem wasn’t what I had done. My problem was how to act moving forward.

I needed to not lie to the Chargers. If that meant I walked a fine line, so be it.

I needed to not get cornered by Gwen and give something up. I would have to just blend in with the rest of the Chargers, as far as she was concerned. I should probably avoid Sera, too, as there weren’t very many ways a conversation with her about Gwen could end well.

And I needed to be come completely clean, with  _somebody_ at least. If I didn't tell somebody trustworthy about it in confidence soon, the whole story was going to spill out at some horribly inopportune moment; it was inevitable, with my luck.

There was shouting up ahead, then, and I looked up just in time to get a partially obstructed view of Adaar gleefully tackling Gwen into a snow bank and the two of them laughing and hugging one another. A few dozen paces later, I got close enough to the summit of the pass to see the Valley dropping away below and – perched in the middle like a fever dream – a clearly abandoned, ancient fortress of epic scale.

“Solas! Forgive me for doubting you, this is truly a bastion worthy of the hike,” Adaar called, followed by, “I can’t believe you got us all here intact, Cullen, you are a miracle worker.”

I didn’t catch a response from Solas, but Cullen demurred politely. Adaar was calling for Leliana then – something about squeezing her until her ribs cracked – and the Inquisition spilled over the lip of the Valley to take the castle below.

The long walk was over.

We had work to do – weeks of work to do, from the looks of this place - but we had a base of operations again. We would have a mail service soon, if I knew anything at all about the Inquisition’s impressive infrastructure-building capabilities. I would be able to send a letter to Opie.

She, at least, could hear the whole story. I could finally apologize properly, say what she needed to hear. Maybe, just maybe, with us settling down with a keep for mages, I could talk her into joining the Inquisition.

 

*

 

I was right about the work.

We weren’t just assigned tasks; we were all given a queue to work through. The Chargers were to secure the Keep, and provide as detailed a description of the structure as possible to Cullen. Gwen was insisting on being shown around, and keeping her safe in the bowels of an ancient abandoned fortress was also a job for the Chargers. Once Skyhold was secure – _such a cool fucking name_ – the Chargers were to find a better way back to Haven and secure the location for later recovery operations. We knew the place was full of gear; we needed to get there before the looters could, but hopefully after Corypheus’ army had buggered off. From Haven we were being sent into Ferelden to Therinfal Redoubt, where Adaar had missed a date with Lord Seeker Lucius. The sheer number of red-lyrium-addled templars, that everyone was referring to simply as _Red Templars_ , had us fairly confident that Therinfal was going to be empty, and creepy as fuck. _Somebody_ had to go look into it, though, and that was exactly what the Chargers were for.

It was a solid week before I had a chance to sit down and write the hardest letter of my life.

 

_Opie,_

_The Inquisition was chased out of Haven, but we’ve settled on this rock in the middle of the Frostbacks that Adaar is calling Skyhold. I realize as I write this that you might have gotten all sorts of fucked up news in Orlais, but our casualties were relatively low and we’re in a much better spot now._

_Now that I’ve got an address again, we need to talk. The Chargers have marching orders so I’ll be in and out of range but we’ll return back to Skyhold and the mail is (obviously, since you’re reading this) running again. I don’t know how to write what I need to say. I understand why you never noticed I was leaving this sort of shit out of my letters because how the fuck do I write about it? I kept my date, although I didn’t remember it until it happened. I didn't remember anything until it happened, but then... Then it came back in a flood. I’m doing what I came to do but I have eight years of bullshit to clean up and the first person I have to make amends to is you. And then to Brue, since I didn’t understand his son’s name until now._

_Adaar formed an alliance with the rebel mages; they’re all in Skyhold now. I told you to stay away from Haven and I’m glad I did but Skyhold is safe. I’ve been through every level of this place and there’s nothing that can chase us out of here, not once we fortify it the way the Inquisition intends to. I could give you a dozen reasons why I’m asking you to come to Skyhold but it all boils down to I think you would like it here, and I would like it if you were here. If I have to come to Val Royeaux in order to talk to you, I will. Just tell me. I expect nothing less than a punch in the face when I finally see you again, and then I would like the opportunity to explain everything._

_This time I really do mean **everything**. I know now that I don’t have to hide._

_Twitch_

 

I read it through three or four times. There was nothing in there that would get me in trouble with anyone short of Bull, but I knew how to be sure he wouldn't see it. I left the letter unsealed and took it to Sera.

“You haven’t written to Opie _yet_?” she teased, taking the paper from my hand, giving it a once-over, and then wrapping it up with a stack of similar missives. “I got word out with the first messenger leaving Skyhold! You lookin’ for another fist in yer face?”

“I’m friends with Opie,” I reminded her with a grin. “That means I’m always looking for a fist in my face.”

Sera cackled gleefully. “That’s what makes ‘er my favorite elf! The rest of her family is right scary.”

“Did you hear about the time I tried to fix the eaves on Senna’s house?”

“No,” Sera said, sobering quickly. “Let’s see the scar.”

“What, do you think I’m stupid?” I laughed, slapping away her hands when she reached for my shirt. “Senna said stop and I said _yes ser_.”

Sera bubbled over with laughter and then sealed up the stack of letters. She was still laughing as she made an odd little gesture with her right hand and then took my elbow and led me away from the waxed bundle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a plainly dressed, utterly unremarkable human laborer nonchalantly scoop up the missives and walk unquestioned out the gates.

“You were made for this,” I told her, trying to keep the pride out of my voice.

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about, Twitchy. Let’s go drink.”

 

*

 

I was packing up my gear for the trip to Haven when Bull plucked me out of the room I shared with most of the other Chargers in the base of one of Skyhold’s towers. I followed him outside, into the weak light that comes from being at the base of tall walls high in the mountains early in the morning.

“You’re staying here,” he told me when we were alone.

It was no use to argue, although I wanted to. “Alright. May I ask why?”

“You may.”

I waited a beat and sighed. “Why?”

Bull chuckled. “Because you’re full of shit, is why.”

My heart stuttered and I immediately focused on smothering my physical reactions. I was already too late.

“There it is. You’re aptly named, kid. I never saw it until you set eyes on Gwen. You been twitchy as shit ever since. Were you planning on coming clean?”

“No, ser,” I whispered.

Bull’s eyebrows went up.

“I’ve been going back over everything, and I haven’t once lied to you, Chief,” I told him, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “When you met me, I told you I didn’t remember, and that was true. I had absolutely no memory of who I was before Solona named me Twitch.”

“But you remember now.”

I could either say yes or stay silent, but I couldn’t start lying. I clenched my jaw and prepared for the worst.

Bull crossed his arms over his chest and settled in to wait me out.

“You don’t make anybody talk about their past, Chief,” I reminded him when it was clear he wasn’t moving.

“No, I don’t make anybody talk about their past to anybody _except me_ ,” Bull corrected. His tone was not unkind, and I began to think I just might survive this. “I spent a lot of time and effort trying to figure out where you were before you showed up in Denerim, and I’m thinking the reason I couldn’t find you is there wasn’t a you to find.”

I flinched, and it was enough for the Chief.

“You learned Qunlat the same way Gwen did, eh?”

Didn’t I want to come clean? Granted, I'd rather tell Opie, but the Chief had me pinned. The whole damn ordeal could be over right now.

“Yes, ser,” I confessed, feeling the tension leak out of my shoulders.

“You have some reason for not telling Gwen this.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You had some reason for not telling _me_ this.”

“No, ser.”

“No? Then why didn’t you.”

“I forgot, Bull,” I insisted. “I made myself forget everything. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know there was anything to tell.”

“What made you remember?”

“Her fucking shoes,” I admitted, feel an urge to laugh and only barely suppressing it. “No getting around it; those things aren’t from around here.”

The Iron Bull grunted what could have been a brief chuckle. “Will it do me any good to ask you if she’s telling the truth?”

“Would you believe the answer?” I countered.

He regarded me for a long minute. “I might.”

I paused and considered the location of our chat. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

He really did laugh then. “Absolutely. You’re stuck here with me until further notice, we can talk wherever and however you like.”

 

*

 

The Chargers left that afternoon, and I sat with the Chief in our empty bunkroom and said no word that wasn’t the truth. I explained to him our planet, the bombings that turned us into refugees, and the blonde woman who had apparently magicked my ass into another world. If I left out her name, that’s his own fault for not specifically asking. I also skipped over the bit where she told me my job was to make sure Gwen was accepted, but again he didn’t actually ask if I’d been given a purpose. I confirmed Gwen’s story about Thedas being a fictional world, and while I didn’t know the future because I didn’t know the story like she did, I told him my girlfriend had the kind of knowledge Gwen did and I believed everything Gwen had to say.

Finally letting somebody else know about Cindy was another huge measure of shame off my conscience.

I didn’t have to tell him much about the shit I got into in Denerim – he’d been looking into my backstory, after all – but he definitely wanted the explanation of my memory wipe.

“I was sitting on Opie’s roof,” I told him, “and she told me I could.”

“You did it?” Bull clarified, shocked. “She didn’t cut something open and-“

“She’s not a blood mage, Chief,” I chided, letting a little bit of scorn into my voice. “I know what blood magic is.”

“Then how did it work?”

“Fuck, I don’t know how to explain it. It shouldn't have worked. It was eight years ago and it involved me forgetting shit, so it's not like the memory is crystal clear. I wanted to forget, Opie said it would work, so I made myself forget. Haven’t you ever really wanted to forget something, and done everything you could to blank it out?”

The Iron Bull went still at the question.

“Yeah,” he said, softly, a long moment later. “I can’t say I was successful, though.”

“Do the tamassrans use magic to do it?”

Bull shook his head, _no_. “You’ve got me there, kid.”

We were both quiet for a long stretch of time, then. I didn’t really want to press the point, or change the subject if the Chief was still dwelling on it. If I could get away with not telling Bull that I knew I could change my environment from sheer force of will, I was off to the races. I'd learned enough about demons and shit to never want to have that conversation with the Chief.

“Why didn’t you tell Gwen she’s not alone?”

“Because I don’t want to try to convince somebody she’s a widow.”

Bull hissed out a dismayed breath. “Fair point.”

“You going to tell her?”

“Fuck no.”

“Well, then.”

He sighed and then leaned forward, dropping his elbows to his knees and putting us more on eye level. “Since we’ve both agreed to lie to her, let me be honest with you.”

“Yeah, Chief?”

“Word went out a long time ago – years, now – of humans claiming to be from another world popping up in Rivain. There’s a tamassran assigned to do nothing but find them and bring them in. You fit the bill: fluent Qunlat with a unique accent, particularly healthy, on the short side of normal, no family or connections before a rather precise moment in time, like you didn't exist before that moment. I didn’t put it together until you quoted the Arishok one day, you remember that?”

I nodded, struck speechless.

“So if you were wanting to stay out of the Qun, you did the right thing by staying hidden. I hear there’s a warehouse in Kont-aar full of people like you. Like Gwen.”

“Are you sending me to the tamassrans?” I asked him when I found my voice.

He shook his head. “No. First, I need you here. Second, they never asked me to send anybody in. I was supposed to keep an ear open for news, and I already sent word about Gwen. No way I was keeping that quiet. Part of the reason we’re even here is they caught wind of Adaar and suspected she was one of you. Not sure why; she had a pretty easy history to piece together. We’d had our eye on Shokrakar for years.”

“Chief,” I said slowly, choosing my words with care, “I don’t want to go to Rivain or Par Vollen, so thank you. But... aren’t you really supposed to send me?”

He broke eye contact, letting his head drop to match his dangling hands. “Yeah, Twitch. I really probably should. But you’re one of mine. I don’t let good people go if I can help it.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

“Thanks for coming clean, kid. I was worried I couldn’t trust you.”

“I’ve been a Charger for a long time. I don’t have any plans of stopping.”

“Even to chase that elf in Val Royeaux?”

I shrugged. “I’d rather talk her into coming here. But if you're offering, maybe you’ll give me another leave?”

Finally, Bull laughed, and I felt like I could finally relax. “If it comes to that, we’ll talk.”

“Fair enough. Can I try to catch up with the Chargers?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got something here you’re going to do.”

“Oh? Special assignment?”

“You’re going to teach the Commander how to speak Qunlat.”

All the tension flooded back into my shoulders. “Say what now?”

“There’s a lot of good reasons, but the only one you need to know, is that neither one of you wants anybody to know you’re speaking Qunlat. We’ll see how he does, whether he’s serious. Krem and I can help too but you’re going to lay the foundation for him.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say but, “Yes, ser.”

“And Twitch? If you want to think of it as punishment for not telling me right away about your memory, then I say we'd be back to even.”

Not getting chopped in half sounded good to me. “Consider me well and thoroughly chastised, ser.”

“Go introduce yourself to Cullen, then,” he said waving me off.


	27. Goals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The difference between who you are, what you do, and what gives you life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the prior chapter, this is what I was alluding to with the warehouse in Kont-aar:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5521874/chapters/15088075

I was still in a daze when I tapped on Commander Cullen’s office door.

I vaguely remembered arguing with Cindy about the man, which was almost painful to reconcile with my current state of affairs. I’d only known him from his stint in Kirkwall, and frankly found him to be a twat. Cindy liked to wax poetic about his _character arc_ and _personal growth_ until I reminded her that if you’re growing as a person you probably started out as an asshole.

“Don’t bother knocking, just come in,” the former Knight-Captain called, with some heat to his tone.

“Here’s to growth,” I muttered to myself and pushed open the door.

“Yes?” he asked, glancing up from a rather impressive array of reports stacked with military precision across the broad desktop. He’d only just moved into this office; there were still heaps of random bullshit in two of the corners, and the patch of ice on the floor by the rickety ladder suggested a hole in the roof. “Who are you reporting from?”

Maybe I was grumpy about being left behind while the rest of the Chargers left. Maybe I was in weird headspace from the conversation with Bull. Maybe I still hated the fact that Cindy had been in love with this twat. Whatever it was, the words that came out of my mouth weren’t anything I would have planned.

“Why the fuck do you want to learn Qunlat?” I asked, using words I couldn’t help but still think of as _English_.

His head snapped up and his hand abruptly ceased motion. The forgotten quill dripped ink onto the page, ruining whatever it was he’d been working on. He stared at me for the space of four long breaths before seeming to recall he’d been writing something and turning his attention back to the ink-stained page with a swear.

I sauntered across the room and dropped into a dusty chair that had been salvaged from somewhere but not yet thoroughly cleaned. Cullen balled up his ruined paper and chucked it towards a waste bin set near the door opposite the one I’d entered through. It was a good shot and probably would have gone in, if the bin wasn’t already full of paper.

The Commander’s eyes shot murder at me over his desk as I perfected my sprawl and waited him out.

“I’m afraid I know neither your name nor the meaning of your question,” he growled.

“I’m Twitch,” I answered. “I’m just another nameless, faceless Charger to you, I’m sure. That’s fine. I rather liked it that way. But the Chief says you want to learn Qunlat. I’m in a bit of trouble with the Chief, so I’m the one who gets to teach you.”

“And you know Qunlat how?” Cullen pressed.

I sighed. “That would be why I’m in trouble with the Chief,” I replied. “Seems I wasn’t forthcoming enough about my knowledge. I’m a native speaker, and I could have done some good with Gwen if I’d been willing to cop to it. I wasn’t. I’m still not, if I’m honest.”

Cullen lifted his arms onto the desk and tucked his fists into the crooks of his elbows. “So you don’t want anyone to know you speak Qunlat, and I don’t want anyone to know I’m learning it. We both keep each other’s secret out of self-preservation.”

“I think that was how the Chief meant it.”

“And your derision towards me?”

Honesty only, I reminded myself. My conscience was clearer if I didn’t have extraneous lies weighing on it. “Everything I know about you comes from your time in Kirkwall.”

Cullen’s face blanked, all expression evaporating into a careful mask of neutrality. “Your poor opinion is fairly earned, then.”

“Ugh, don’t get all kicked puppy on me,” I groaned, leaning forward. “Look, I’m just going to start teaching you the language, alright? Nothing personal about it, one way or the other.”

“Alright,” Cullen agreed. “I would ask you to get on with it, then, except this is neither an opportune time nor place, if we mean to keep this to ourselves.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed, leaning back into the chair. “How do you want to do this?”

“You’re one of Bull’s Chargers.”

“I am. Kind of you to notice.”

“Are you any good with that sword?

I met his eyes and matched his smile. “Would you like to find out?”

“Meet me here after the final change of watch?”

“I’ll be here with bells on,” I agreed in English with a nod.

Cullen nodded and turned his attention back to his quill and a clean sheet of paper. “Very well. You can explain your answer then.”

 

*

 

Cullen learned Qunlat the way I originally tried learning Common: in the sparring ring. We climbed onto one or the other tower roofs – whichever wasn’t under construction at the time – and tried to kill each other with swords. As we went, I gave him colors and prepositions and the names for every bit of arms and armament we could think to bring.

The man was fucking brilliant. I didn’t expect him to have much of a mind but he was Commander of the Inquisition armies for good reason. He asked shrewd questions and it was only three nights before he reached the conclusion it had taken Bull years to ascertain.

“You’re from her world, aren’t you?” he asked, dropping his shield and signaling for a moment’s respite.

I tossed my sword to the floor, letting the clatter of steel on stone camouflage my answer, on the off chance anyone was happening to listen in. “Yeah.”

“It’s the way you string together words, moreso than the accent,” Cullen told me softly, seeming to understand I was covering my voice, and scuffling his feet as he tossed me a skin of water before lifting one to drink deeply. “Although even that is different than Bull’s, much different than Krem’s.”

“She can’t know,” I told him, stepping close so I could drop my voice. “She can’t ever know.”

“Why?”

“Because she can’t,” I repeated, reaching down to swipe my sword back off the paving stones, letting the practice blade drag a bit. “She would just ask questions I don’t have any answer for. I don’t know her circumstances, I just know they were bad.”

“How bad?”

“How bad would things have to get for you to abandon Thedas entirely?”

Cullen’s face went blank again. “Maker.”

“Forget you know this about me,” I told him, gesturing with my sword for us to continue.

Cullen barked a laugh but followed suit. “That’s why you seem familiar.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You remind me of Cassandra.”

“That something she says?”

Cullen smirked and settled his shield in place. “A time or two.”

“A time or two,” I repeated in English.

“A time or two,” he echoed, and then swung his sword.

 

*

 

I felt angry.

Listless.

I thought it was because I didn’t have fuck-all to do during the daylight hours. I didn’t want to be seen around the keep because I didn’t want people to ask why I’d been left behind. The tavern wasn’t open yet. I’d already explored all of the deeper parts of Skyhold and sketched half the fortress. Gwen was living somewhere in the lower levels, to boot; if I wanted to avoid her I needed to stay the hell away from the main building.

Which meant I lurked in the Charger bunkroom and stewed.

“What crawled up your ass?” Bull asked at the end of the first week of the Chargers’ mission without me.

“Bored,” I grunted, throwing a piece of wood into the hearth. The fire wasn’t burning, and the wood was a leg I’d just broken off a chair, so I could see why it might be viewed negatively.

Bull grunted. “Should have figured you were one of those.”

“Excuse me?”

“First time you haven’t had a goal,” the Iron Bull guessed, leaning back to kick a heel of one foot onto the toes of the other.

“Sure I do. Teach Cullen Qunlat.”

“That’s a job.”

“Being a Charger is a job.”

“Being a Charger is a career, an identity maybe." Bull countered. “Teaching Cullen Qunlat is a job. Surviving a strange world until Gwen showed up, now _that_ was a goal. Getting out of Haven and finding Skyhold were all wrapped up in that. And now? Now you got nothing else to work towards, nothing to look forward to.”

I didn’t have an answer for him. I grunted and pulled another leg off the chair.

“I might have to send you carting off after that elf, if just to keep enough furniture intact so we're not sleeping on the stones this winter.”

I tossed the rest of the chair into the hearth. “You got a suggestion or are you just making observations?”

“I’ll send you to meet Krem when we hear back from Haven,” Bull replied. “And then maybe we’ll try to think of something on a grander scale to keep you occupied.”

“Any idea of when we’ll hear from Krem?”

“Any time now.”

“Great.”

“Go get some sunlight, Twitch, you’ll wither away down here.”

I turned heel and left.

It was something more than just not having a goal. Of course, if I actually considered it, I knew he was right. I’d always been goal driven. My early years were focused on going to college. Then, graduating. Then, getting a job. Then, proposing to Cindy.

Then I ended up here and I dedicated the next decade of my life to staying alive and protecting Gwen. Arguably, that was still my goal; Gwen’s ongoing survival wasn’t a goal that was going away any time soon, even if it maybe wasn’t as pressing anymore. My own survival was arguably a permanent goal, since I was little more than a foot soldier in a war against demons and the embodiment of all evil.

No, this was something else. There was something else going on that I wasn’t putting together. Something I was missing.

What I was missing was Opie. Stupid.

I took myself into the building that would be a tavern once it was stocked, and jogged up the stairs to the second floor that Sera had taken to haunting. Sera was subconsciously linked to Opie in my mind now; whenever I missed the crazy elf apostate I found myself looking for Sera instead.

Sera had company, for the first time. There were two people in her room, a man and a woman, both far taller than the elven Jenny. I took in their matching green eyes in identical somber expressions, the woman’s black hair, the man’s ginger halo, and then their templar armor before starting to make the connection.

Sera turned when she heard her door open, a letter crumpled in her fist, and when I saw the dismay in her eyes the world came to a standstill.

“Tell me she’s alright,” I said, freezing in the doorway. “That’s all I need to hear. Just tell me that Opie is okay.”

Sera handed me a letter and I felt my breath rattle in my throat when I recognized my own handwriting. It was the last thing I’d written to Ophelia, returned unread.

“Sera, tell me-“

“She thinks _we’re_ dead,” Sera said, putting up one hand in a calming, consoling motion. “She left before she could hear for sure.”

“Left?” I echoed. My panic shrunk noticeably. “So she’s alright.”

"As far as anyone knows, yeah."

“Twitch, I presume?” the female Templar – Aillis, if I wasn’t mistaken – asked.

“Yeah. You Aillis? Eamon?”

The ginger smiled at me. “Opie wrote about us, eh?”

“I wanted a description of what Templars I was killing if somebody fucked with her again,” I informed him. I meant him no malice but it was the simple truth. “She said I didn’t have anything to worry about with you two.”

“So you were the accomplice,” Aillis said, thoughtfully. “I assumed as much when I saw the letter.”

“The letter?” I asked, turned to Sera.

“The letter I just handed yeh, this’n that came back,” Sera told me. She frowned for a moment and then handed me a different sheet – one that had passed through far fewer hands. “And this’n that she wrote.”

 

_Sera,_

_Aillis insists you’re alive. She says it’s the only thing that makes sense, that someone had to send word to Val Royeaux, that someone had to have survived to report the avalanche, that the news as we’ve heard it is impossible. I’m sending her and Eamon to Orzammar, to try to find a guide that will take them up to Haven. Gorim had a contact in the market outside the gates there, they should be able to get fresh news if nothing else._

_And they can’t follow me where I’m going._

_I don’t want to know. Maker, we argued over this for ages and now I understand where you were coming from, the bliss of ignorance. I don’t want to get the confirmation that you and Twitch are-_

_I can’t even write it._

_Orlais is a mess and it isn’t my war. The Nightmare growing in power is my war, and with the loss of the Inquisition, the vast majority of magic in Southern Thedas is either with the Wardens – who have vanished – or with the loyalists here in Val Royeaux that would not give me the time of day even if I deigned to ask. I need more information, more training, and there’s only one place an elf can go._

_Everything else I think to write is so meaningless. I don’t agree with Aillis, I don’t think you’re ever going to see these words. I’m only writing this because she’s a damn bully and she says the closure is good for me. Maker knows it was good to go back to Denerim and say goodbye after Amaranthine._

_I hope your end was painless. I hope you’re perched on the back of the Maker’s throne, and he’s tossing raisin cookies in the air for you to shoot, and that you never miss._

_I promise I will never forget you_

_Opie_

 

God, I was a fucking mess. I didn’t know whether to puke, rage, or laugh.

“Fucking dumbass stubborn ignorant elf prick,” I muttered. “Couldn’t just wait to get a fucking answer.”

“I know, right?” Sera chuckled, a bit uncomfortably, as she retrieved her last letter from Opie. “Some people just like to suffer, I guess.”

“So where did she go?” I asked the group of them. “She didn’t put it in the letter but I assume you know?”

Aillis exchanged a sour look with Eamon. “We don’t.”

“How do you not know?”

“Look, I know she was your... your _Friend_... but I haven’t known her very long and I have no bloody idea where she carted off to,” Aillis told me, clearly frustrated. She couldn’t possibly be as frustrated as I was, but I could appreciate the sentiment. “You know her family, right? Maybe she told them. She sent us to Orzammar for information, like the letter said, and we learned about Skyhold a little less than a week ago. We came here, found Sera, and now you know as much as we do. She saw us off before she left, so I couldn’t even tell you which gate she took out of the city.”

“So what were you supposed to do after you delivered this?” I demanded. “Just bugger off?”

“More or less!” Aillis shot back.

“We were to do for other mages what we’d done for her,” Eamon said, far more calmly that his junior associate. “Find them, gain them safe passage, uphold our duty no matter where the Lord Seeker has jammed his good sense. Then we heard the Inquisition was yet existent and we thought we could better serve Commander Cullen.”

“Twitch,” Sera cut me off before I could fire anything else out of my teeth. “They don’t know, a’ight? They’d tell you if they knew. Opie didn’t wanna be followed, see?”

I leaned against a doorframe and rubbed one hand roughly through my hair while the other clutched the returned letter. “I... I will write Senna. Gil. If they haven’t heard yet, they can at least pounce on the opportunity when Opie writes.”

“And I’ll send to my Friends, ask around, see which way she went. She’s a city elf. They’re not so hard to track.”

I winced. “You can’t track Opie like that.”

“Whatsit?”

“When we left Amaranthine. Fuck. I taught her how to survive in the woods. She won’t need to jump from city to city for supplies. She can probably get away with stealing from the occasional farmstead. She won’t be easy for your Friends to trace, not once she leaves Val Royeaux.”

“The shit, Twitch. Whaddya hafta go and do that for?” Sera demanded, swatting at me.

Eamon snorted. “She gave us quite the scare when she doubled back in the woods the day we first spoke. I can attest to her skill; you taught her well.”

Sera swatted me again and I fended her off and then pushed away from the door frame. “Senna’s our best bet then. I’ll write her now.” Sera nodded and flicked her hand, shooing me out of her room. I nodded at the two templars. “Either of you met anyone in the Inquisition yet? Been up to see Cullen?”

I got matching shaken heads. “Came straight away to Sera.”

“Better Killer than Jackboot, what?” Sera suggested to me.

“Probably. I’ll take ‘em.”

“Right. She’s out on gate duty a’the moment.”

I gestured for Aillis and Eamon to follow me. “I can take you to meet Killeen. She’s one of Cullen’s Lieutenants. She can take you up to meet with Cullen and get you settled. If you went straight to the Commander he’d probably just call for her anyways. Better to do it this way and save everybody some steps.”

“I’m sorry,” Aillis said, softly, when we exited the tavern and made our way to the stairs leading down into the lower courtyard.

“No reason to be.”

“For the news, I meant,” Aillis clarified. “She must mean a lot to you, for you to... I heard about Amaranthine, after all.”

“She was family,” I answered, trying not to think too hard about Opie. I would write Senna and figure out where she’d gone and go get her and bring her home. We could talk about why the hell she couldn’t just sit and wait to hear the news one way or the other once she was safely home. It wasn’t important until then. “She and her family took me in, got me accepted in the alienage even. She’s good people. Always had my back. I couldn’t not have hers.”

Aillis sort of hummed, noncommittally; something else that wasn’t important. Senna. Gil. Hank and Brue. Somebody would know where she was. Shit, maybe she’d written Gorim. I could send to Soldier’s Peak, too, and Amaranthine. Maybe she’d gone looking for Solona again.

What had she said in the letter? _The only place an elf can go_. She didn’t go north, then; Tevinter was no place for an elf, even one with magic. Was she insinuating that she was looking for a Keeper to study with? Where would that take her? Not the Dales, it was in the middle of a civil war. If she was headed to the Brecilian Forest, she would have come back across the mountains with Eamon and Aillis. Were there still clans in the ‘Marches? I could write to Higgins and Glennon; last I’d heard they had taken a job in Ostwick and were all over the Free Marches spying on some noblewoman for her father. They had to have connections there; it couldn’t be too much to ask for them to keep their eyes open for a particular mage, especially a mage with a signature within the Friends. If she turned up on Sera’s network anywhere, we’d hear about it.

I would have to just set all my lines and then wait. Eventually something would get a hit.

“You’re not listening to a thing I say,” Aillis said, and I jumped.

“What? No. No, I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot of letters to write, I’m running through the list in my head.”

Eamon smiled sadly while Aillis laid a hand on my shoulder. “If anybody can find her, it’s you.”

“Thanks, Aillis.”

“What you got, Twitch?” Killeen asked as we neared the end of the long causeway that provided access to Skyhold. “Kicking those two templars out?”

“This is Killeen?” Aillis asked, smiling widely. “We could have saved ourselves some trouble if we’d chatted you up on the way in like I wanted to.”

“This is Knight-Templar Aillis,” Eamon said, indicating the raven-haired woman. “I’m Knight-Lieutenant Eamon. I take it you are Lieutenant Killeen?”

Killeen shot me a sidelong look and then nodded sharply, once. “I am.”

“Twitch and Sera said you would be the person to talk to. I knew Cullen, briefly, in my youth, and would like to discuss with him his plans for disenfranchised templars.”

“Recruits!” Killeen said happily. “That’s far better than the mere messengers you claimed to be earlier. You’ve already been promoted and you’ve only been here an hour.”

“Eamon’s known for his rapid advancement,” Aillis told her primly.

The two females smirked at Eamon, who flushed a bit. “Commander Cullen, if you would.”

Killeen chuckled and tipped her head back towards the keep. I followed at a distance, bemused by Aillis and Killeen’s quick rapport, which seemed to be mostly at Eamon’s expense. It was hard to focus for long on their banter.

I was making a list.

Gil. Senna. Gorim. Solder’s Peak. Amaranthine. Ostwick. Sera would tap the Jennies. I could ask the Chief.

I’d find her. I’d set her straight. And I’d bring her home.


	28. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitch writes letters and hits the road.

“You don’t want me looking for your elf,” the Chief told me when I filled him in on the news of the afternoon.

“What? Of course I do. We have to find her, Chief, she’s-“

“I’m not saying I don’t want to find her for you,” he interrupted, putting a hand out to rest on my shoulder. “I’m saying you don’t want me to send my contacts looking for your elf.”

“Chief-“

“You don’t want the Qun looking for your mage friend, Twitch.”

Full stop. I froze as I was reaching into my foot locker for my writing kit and a whole new world of horrible possibilities opened up.

“Would they-“

“Unlikely. She probably wouldn’t survive the fight, if she ran into a group with an Arvaarad.”

I don’t know what my expression was but it filled Bull’s with concern to see it. “I’m sure she’s fine, kid. That elf you dragged into camp was tough as dragonscale and mouthy as a Rivaini. If she’s half as smart as you seem to think, _nobody_ is going to find her, much less us.”

“Not helping, Chief.”

“Sera’s your best bet. Keep it quiet for now. I’ll drop a bee in Varric’s ear, see if he’s got any eyes to spare. Write your letters. You might consider that there are safer places in the world than Skyhold. Might be you don’t want her anywhere near here.”

“We’d all be safer with her here,” I countered. “She’s a badass, Chief.”

“Be that as it may. She’s one mage in a world of demons. Don’t get too carried away.”

“Understood, ser.”

I hauled my writing kit to the roof of the tower containing the Charger’s bunk room – it was on the south side of the keep, last one before the western corner -  and immediately decided it was a poor course of action. The wind threatened to rip the paper out of my hands and dry out my ink well. I went right back down stairs and set up at a table in the main hall instead.

Senna, first; she was my best bet. I’d write Gil just to double my chances, since he’d put a bug in Kyler’s ear and would be more likely to notice if Kyler received any unexplained letters. Gorim would get a letter just to cover my bases. Then I’d write Amaranthine, since word was the Wardens had reestablished their presence, albeit without any mages. I’d address it to Alistair and hope he remembered me. Then last would be a line to Higgins and Glennon.

_Senna,_

_The rumors of my demise are unfounded. My stupid shem ass is still alive. Haven is a total loss but the Inquisition has a new holdfast in the mountains._

_If you hear from your shithead cousin, please tell her that Sera and I are both fine, and that she needs to leave me a forwarding fucking address if she wants her letter answered. I don’t know if you’ve heard from her, but she’s left Val Royeaux and cut loose her twin Templars. Sera’s working on finding her but honestly you’re our better bet._

_Twitch_

 

The next two were variations on that theme, but still the same idea: tell the dumbass we’re not dead. Gil and Gorim hadn't written me before, but I could hope that a letter seemingly out of the blue would help underscore the urgency of the problem.

I took a break and stretched my hand before attempting the fourth message.

 

_Warden-Constable Alistair Theirin,_

_I can only hope you remember me. We met in Denerim, just after the Blight. You gave me a sword that I use to this day, and later I had the opportunity to work with you and Solona in conjunction with her friend, Ophelia._

_It is Ophelia – Opie – that drives me to write you. She was previously in Val Royeaux, and for reasons I do not fully understand, chose to leave. Her whereabouts are currently unknown. My hope is that she has sought out Loner once more, and perhaps found more luck in this attempt. I am writing only to ask if you have heard any word of Opie, or if Solona or yourself have any idea where she might have gone. Please, if you hear anything, send word to me in the Inquisition fortress of Skyhold._

_Thank you,_

_Twitch_

 

Now that I was thinking about it, there didn’t seem to be a good reason to try to write to Solona, herself. It was common knowledge by this point that Solona had pulled her Wardens into Soldier’s Peak and then disappeared when the Templar/mage conflict started brewing. I wasn’t even sure if there was a way to send mail to Soldier’s.

My Ferelden contacts reasonably exhausted – I couldn’t imagine Opie would go to Highever and Senna or Sera would find out if she did – I worked out the cramp in my writing hand and started a letter to Ostwick.

 

_To My Esteemed Colleagues, Masters Higgins and Glennon,_

_What are you chumps doing in Ostwick? I got word you’d been in Kirkwall and I’m fairly confident I told you to stay out of that shithole._

_I wish I could say this was a leisurely attempt to catch up, but I need help. I had a friend in Denerim, lived in the alienage. She managed to get out of Ferelden a year ago, and has been living in Val Royeaux. Very recently she went missing, and we’re throwing out as wide a net as we can to try to find her. She’s one of our Friends, and goes by the name of Opie. I’m including a second page with her description and signature pattern._

_She could be literally anywhere. She had a bad run with Templars and will fuck you up if she’s cornered, so this is definitely not a manhunt. Just… if you see her, or hear any news of her, let me know or send word to Friends in Denerim or Val Royeaux. She thinks Sera and I are dead, so dissuading her of that notion would be helpful, too._

_I’m with the Chargers still. We’ve signed on with the Inquisition in Skyhold. If you guys get bored up there, we’ve got room for you here. My warnings about Kirkwall and Haven are officially expired._

_Twitch_

 

I scrubbed my hands across my face and set to work sealing the letters, writing address instructions on the various missives, and stoppering the inkwell. I was packing up my writing kit when someone stopped at the table I was using and made it clear they were waiting for me. I glanced up and saw the same plainclothes laborer who had taken Sera’s letters before.

“Post?” he asked, softly.

“Whole stack right there,” I answered with a nod. “How much?”

“Sera pays,” he informed me, scooping the letters off the desk and disappearing out of the hall. I finished cleaning up and then followed in his footsteps.

I caught sight of Gwen out of the corner of my eye and detoured, crossing the courtyard in the opposite direction she was coming from. I was not in the right head space to try to bluff my way through a conversation with her today. I ended up passing in front of the armory just as Bull was coming out.

“Twitch!”

I skidded to a stop. “Chief?”

“Got your letters written?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Come on, then.”

“Where to?”

“Training. I’m going to knock the shit out of you. We’re drinking you under. And then you’re getting up in the morning and getting on the road.”

“Hear from Krem, ser?”

“Didn’t matter if I hadn’t, but yes. You’ve got to get out of here so you don’t go nuts waiting for mail.”

“What’s knocking the shit out of me got to do with anything?”

“Back talk, Twitch,” Bull said with an evil little smile. “The Qun comes down hard on the back talk.”

 

*

 

If I thought I would be staggering down the road, miserably hungover, by myself, I was horribly misinformed. The staggering down the road bit and the hangover bit were accurate; my misery, however, was witnessed. There was a team of Inquisition soldiers dispatched to the meet the Chargers and collect an addled Chantry sister Krem had discovered in the mountains. I rode with the Inquisition to the meeting place, and from there I would ride with the Chargers to Therinfal Redoubt.

I did very little thinking the first day on the road, being more focused on keeping my saddle and properly hydrating. The shit Chief had given me that night – some Qunari rotgut that he was nursing – was well and truly terrible. I felt like my stomach lining had been eroded in one fell swoop and my stomach acid was now working on the rest of my internal organs.

The agony of slow internal auto-cannibalism aside, the Chief had done me a solid. I had thirty-six straight hours of _not thinking about Opie_ that probably saved my sanity. 

I wouldn’t be spending every day in Skyhold waiting for letters to arrive. Something would surely be there when we got back, and if not I would have less time to wait than if I’d stayed. Even when he was pinning me down like a butterfly in a shadow box he was taking care of me.

Kind of crazy, how good of care he took of his Chargers.

Once I woke up the second day on the road – much improved but definitely not at one hundred percent – I was able to think a bit more clearly about what had transpired in Sera’s room.

I had been so terrified that Opie had been killed – and so relieved when I learned that wasn’t the case – that I hadn’t asked all the questions I should have.

Why had she written Sera a letter of goodbye, and not me? It was selfish to think about it that way, but there was no way Opie and Sera were closer than Opie and I. No way.

...Unless that was the answer? Opie hadn’t written a letter to me (Dead Me, at least) because she and I were closer than she and Sera? Maybe she couldn’t write me? Maybe my death hurt her more than Sera’s had?

It was too narcissistic a concept for me to spend too much time on. More likely, there was a letter and Sera had handed me the wrong one.

Or, worst case, she was still so mad at me for forgetting everything that she was relieved I was dead.

That didn’t seem realistic, given how Aillis and Eamon had interacted with me. Maybe Aillis had the letter but forgot? Or she had delayed, wanting to give it to me in confidence so Sera didn’t see it?

I would just have to talk to them both about it, separately, when I got back to Skyhold.

Ideally, the conversation would be unnecessary. Ideally, by the time I got back, I’d have a letter from Senna telling me where Opie had gone. Scratch that... the _ideal_ would be that Opie heard the Inquisition survived and would be waiting for me in Skyhold when we got back. She’d try to hit me, I’d dodge, she’d laugh, and then everything would be right with the world. I would tell her everything – _everything_ – and she would help me keep Gwen safe. And maybe she’d have a really good reason for not sending me a letter like she had Sera, and we’d get everything in the open.

And, while I was daydreaming, maybe Corypheus would realize the error of his ways and turn himself in for the Inquisitor’s justice, helpfully killing his pet arch demon and giving us the secret to destroying the Blight once and for all.

Between the direct route Krem and the Chargers had found between Skyhold and Haven, the teams of soldiers who had been bringing up supplies from the lost town, and the Chargers riding up to meet us halfway, my trip was a short one. It was the end of the second day when I was reunited with my mercenary family.

“Twitch!” Siren called, while Squirrel rode up to greet me.

“Why didn’t you come with us before?” Meck asked as I pried Squirrel’s arms off and escaped from her too-tight hug with a laugh.

“Chief had something he wanted me to do. Wrote a lot of letters to contacts he knew I had.”

It was absolutely the truth, and it would explain any influx of mail I had waiting when I got back. If Krem seemed suspicious, his assistance in teaching Cullen Qunlat when we got back would give an alternative explanation. I willfully put the question of Opie in the back of my mind.

“Therinfal?” I asked, indicating the road ahead of us.

“Next stop, templar shitshow,” Wilder’s voice drifted up, easily identifiable even if I couldn’t see him through the press of Chargers.

“Chargers!” Krem called. He wasn’t imitating the Chief – none of us could manage a third of what a Qunari’s vocal chords were capable of – but his voice incited the exact same degree of obedience. “Let’s move out!”

We fell in behind our Lieutenant and turned our minds to Red Templars.


	29. One, Two - Find a Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Two, a Charger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear friend Eisen volunteered to write a war table mission for my Chargers! Chapters 29 & 30 are compliments of [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen) and if you haven't read his work yet you are a fool. Also the more comments he gets the more he writes so FFS leave him notes so he'll post more on AoC before I die of suspense.

“Whose idea was this again?” Simone asked from where she was pulling herself up  _ another _ ledge.

“Krem’s,” I replied, hoping I’d successfully managed to suppress the grin as I helped her up.

“Fuck you Krem.”

“Fuck you too, One.”

“At least the distraction worked,” I interjected, without thinking.

“Of course it worked, shem, the Nightingale’s plans  _ always _ work,” Skinner drawled from somewhere near my elbow as we struggled to make it further up the rockface. Sounding somewhat bitter at the admission. But then, Skinner nearly always sounded bitter. Or maybe it was just the accent.

“I wouldn’t say  _ always _ ,” I replied, huffing, “The mage-templar shitstorm and Conclave hardly went to plan.” 

Krem’s grin was evident in his tone as he responded, “Brave of you to say that, Two; try doing that in front of her.”

I couldn’t quite suppress the shiver down my spine thinking of that scenario, “Void no, I want to live long enough to actually spend the obscene pay we get for these jobs.”

Simone and I were relatively new members to the company, only having signed on about half a year before we got pulled into working with the Inquisition.

It had been a childhood joke, growing up together. Life had been hard as orphans in the streets of Cumberland and it had been one of the small things that brought us entertainment back when we’d not only had to fight for pay, but also had to fight to survive. As much as the city is lauded for its culture, every port is a shithole if you dug deep enough.

So we became One and Two, names ripped from our real names as much as our innocence had been torn from us then. We crafted a pretty little backstory around that too: that our father, a Nevarran peasant, had been so proud upon learning the Kingspeak words, that he had named his first two children by them, aided by the fact that that was also the order in which they had been born. This had amused the Chief, even if he didn’t seem to have entirely believed it; we got to keep names we had chose, so we didn’t care. A small victory in a life full of loss, but still a victory.

We weren’t really siblings, but sure as the void wouldn’t reveal that to anyone - Simone had gone through far too much already. It helped having the threat of a strong arm beside her wherever she went without raising uncomfortable questions about why  _ I _ wasn’t bedding her. Few realised that she was actually the more deadly of our duo.

“Cut the chatter ladies, we don’t know if all the sentries were pulled away by the Inquisition’s scouts” Krem called from ahead after a short while more of good-natured banter, causing the entire column to go silent. His tone had taken that ring to it: that ring every fighter recognised in a leader’s voice - that if they did not listen, they would likely not live to see the next day.

There was the clatter of steel against stone far above them as the grappling hooks were pulled fast. Krem nodded to Skinner, who used the rope to scale the rough stones of Therinfal Redoubt’s walls. Moments later we heard a whistle from the top and the rest of the Chargers began pulling themselves up.

There were more than a few choice swear words being uttered when we had all reached the top and begun working our way through the open area behind what looked to be the keep proper.

Large shards of crystals coalesced around pedestals of rock marked with cyan runes that littered the area at seemingly random intervals. They shimmered with a dark-green light in a manner that had you questioning whether you saw anything at all.

“Krem…”

“I know Dalish, I’ve seen this before, back home. Bloody demons.”

“These days it always seems like it’s demons,” Rocky muttered. I could only nod my assent.

“Aye - ‘Marcher city blows up: demons. The sky breaks: demons. The Divine’s off-ed and Andraste has a herald scarier than the Chief and it’s once again: demons.” Stitches drawled.

Simone flashed a grin that made Thedas a better place for it having existed, as she picked up where the surgeon dropped off, “-the Crows have house-cleaning issues: demons. Fereldans like dogs: demons. Orlais has a new fashion trend: demons.” 

Several of the Chargers chuckled at this, with even Grim supplying his grunt of amusement.

“Alright, shut it,” Krem interrupted, “One and Two, head over to the front and see whether we still need to deal with anyone left behind from the Nightingale’s distraction. We don’t know if there are any Templars here still, but the bastards have one of the best training regimens in the south. Play it safe. Dalish, you and Skinner see what you can make of the mess here. I’m sure that if we had, you know, a  _ mage _ here, they’d tell me the Veil is thin or something. Even if we don’t have any rifts.”

Secretly glad not to have to work with Dalish, me and Simone both nodded and moved to do as ordered as the elf smirked and none-too-subtly hefted her staff, moving towards one of the alien formations. Living in Cumberland had done little to make me more comfortable with mages, no matter how useful one could be in a fight. We’d encountered an apostate once, in the alleys when we were still too young, I still don’t know how we survived that without ending up as shambling corpses, either one of us forced by Mortalitasi magic to kill the other.

Krem turned to the remaining Chargers, his barked orders carrying through the hall: “I want you to sweep the place, room for room, two-by-two. I won’t have any of you have me writing letters to your mum now, just because you got cock-full on a mission in a seemingly-empty castle, and no, Stitches I didn’t mean it like that, stop snickering.”

-

We had made it to the gatehouse unchallenged, even there finding everything completely abandoned. It set my hair on end. The Inquisition scouts had eventually shown up, the lack of reaction from the fort having forced bolder action. Simone hailed them as I broke the lock of the postern gate and opened it to let them in. She stayed with them as I headed to report this development to Krem.

I found him in a room that could only have been the great hall once; now it was a tomb.

“Maker’s nosering, what happened here?”

“Fuck if I know, these look like executions.” Krem answered, tone flat.

“Who’d have the balls to execute templars?”

The Lieutenant rubbed at his temples, “Other templars maybe? These don’t look like they were too healthy when they died. No bruising and way too pale. Fucked up veins everywhere.”

“Krem, I think I got something,” Our resident sapper’s voice echoed from an adjoining chamber.

“What is it Rocky?”

“I...don’t know, but I think it’s lyrium.”

I’d followed Krem to see what Rocky had found. It looked like a storeroom of sorts, “You don’t know? What kind of dwarf are you?”

“What kind of lyrium is red, and feels like its sings in your head?”

“Shit.”

Everyone looked at Twitch, who had entered the small room at Krem’s back, and I found myself watching his face carefully. There wasn’t much that seemed to faze the normally audacious man, but something robbed him of all wit at that moment. Something to do with the vials Rocky held up containing something like rusted lyrium.

“Twitch, what is it?” Krem asked, clearly having noticed the change as well. “Do you recognise this shit?”

“It doesn’t look exactly like I’d expected it to, but fuck me if it isn’t what I think it is.”

“And what’s that?”

“Red lyrium. The shit the Inquisitor encountered in the future and what made the Templars at Haven into whatever kind of monsters they ended up as.”

Krem looked to Rocky, his eyes hard, “Burn it.”

“Shouldn’t we take-”

“No, I heard they found this shit where the Temple of Sacred Ashes used to be as well. Get rid of it, have Dalish use that bow of her’s and take care not to inhale any fumes.”

“What do we do with the bodies?” Stitches asked from the doorway, looking like all life and expression had been robbed from his features by the grim situation they had uncovered.

“Krem,” I ventured, after all other immediate issues seemed to have been resolved.

“One, what are you doing here anyway? Didn’t I say you asshats shouldn’t be walking around solo? Where’s Two and why aren’t you at the gate?”

“No need, sir. We met up with the scouts. Turns out there was nothing to distract.” How to deal with officers in a bad mood: follow protocol.

“Fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly, sir, something’s not right here.”

“It never is, when demons are involved.”

“Krem?” This time it was Skinner.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Dalish?”

“Oui, but then the dwarf showed up and Grim found something.”

“What?”

“Burned papers and the like, but it looks like some were part of a plan for something big - a lot about the Game.”

“Salvage what you can, and bring it to the Nightingale when we get back,” the mercenary Lieutenant took a deep breath. “Anything else? Else we can head off to Skyhold as soon as Skinner, Rocky and Dalish are done.”

“Actually,” Dalish announced, filling the vacant spot Skinner had left. I could hear Rocky and  Stitches already dealing with the bodies outside. “One of my old elven tricks tells me that whatever was here is now headed southeast.”

This cheered Krem up a bit, “Oh? Good then, we can stick it to the fucker and see if we can find out anything more of what happened here. Send word to the scouts to let the Boss and Co. know where we’re headed. Chargers, move out!”


	30. Three, Four - Kick Down the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Two and One, Chargers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second installment of [Eisen's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen) guest contribution to Twitch's Tale!  
> The Chargers hunt the Therinfal Redoubt demon.

Something was wrong. 

That gut feeling that every fighter learned to trust had us loosening our blades in their sheaths before we even arrived at the village boundary the next morning.

I hadn’t given the place a second thought the first time we passed through. It was your typical one-road village, probably having formed around the timber industry, with the Brecilian Forest not being close, but far away enough so that the harvesting of trees would not arouse any ire from the elves there, or the other, more mysterious things that lurked beneath its boughs. Its like was to be found anywhere and everywhere across the country.

People had been walking through the muddy streets and talking to one another as they went about their day-to-day. Most had been women, with the men out working at the mill or in the forest. There had even been a rather sizable group of children running from house to house, giggling and shrieking.

Now there was nothing.

That was when it first teased me: that twisted sweet aroma that every living thing knew from birth. Being from Nevarra made me that much more attuned to it. Death.

I barely suppressed a jump as the door to the house nearest to us burst inwards. Skinner had somehow managed to kick it down without making any sound beyond the door’s hitting the floor. I wasn’t sure how I felt knowing that people like her existed. Fucking rogues.

She disappeared for a breath before briskly returning, shaking her head.

“Children?” I think it was Twitch who asked.

“Dead.”

The elf was doing that creepy thing with one of her daggers again. This was bad.

Krem nodded, stiff lipped. “Dalish, Twitch, Grim, Stitches, Squirrel and Siren with me,” he ordered. “We’ll see if we can find this supposed ‘meeting’ with the Chief.” He didn’t even try to mask the sneer creeping onto his lips. “Rocky - you and your sappers take care of the bodies, the others, cover him. A demon is bad enough, I don’t want to have to deal with lurchers as well.”

I nodded my assent. Simone did not look like she’d been listening, but the others probably knew by now that she’d probably be able to repeat the orders verbatim, though I had to bury some measure of discomfort. I wasn’t sure whether we’d gotten the better end of the deal. Face-stealer versus dead kids. Toss small, cold remains onto a fire or confront something that might make me have to try to kill something with Simone’s face

Krem’s group soon disappeared down what would probably be called an alley in a city of any size, but here, was the closest thing to a road branching off of the main one. Krem stated that the letter was definitely in the Chief’s style, but the timing was just too convenient. The fact that the village had been turned into a mausoleum within the course of a day without us noticing it from our camp was another tell.

Rocky turned to face those of us left, after the huddle of sappers broke up. “Since we can’t reliably secure the place to do this the old-fashioned way, we’ll do this the quick and dirty way. My guys will do the dirty work, you just stop anything trying to stab them.”

I breathed an internal sigh of relief. No corpse-lugging.

We split off to keep an eye on the sappers, two to a one. Skinner and I had been partnered with the one I think was known as Cake, but I couldn’t be sure as they all looked the same when wrapped up in the soot-stained heavy leathers that they preferred.

Standing outside the doorway of the house, watching for activity and observing how the others all followed a similar pattern was hard. Every bone in my body was screaming action and danger.

I didn’t have to wait long.

A ceramic crash and a violent slew of profanities from the room behind us had Skinner vanish, daggers drawn, before I was even able to  enter the building. It looked like the corpses the dwarf had been working on dispatching had just started to come to life. The one had a dagger through the side of its head, the other looked like its head had simply been crushed against the floor. The third, who I recognised as the boy who’d delivered the message to Krem, looked not to have been possessed yet.

The sight was not one I was unfamiliar with: barely dead, pale, wet with their own blood, but still rising to try and kill you. It was something you expected to happen every now and then as a part of Nevarra’s underworld. It wasn’t ever something you got used to.

I decapitated the boy’s corpse before it too got possessed. At times like these it was instinct and reflex that saved you, not thought. Whatever had ended the villagers was probably inviting some of the more malevolent spirits to inhabit them as well.

Skinner gave me a strange look. The dwarf just dusted itself off and gestured that we get out. The moment we did, all the furniture inside caught alight.

It looked like the other groups had encountered similar issues, with smoke now billowing out of more and more houses. Dead were emerging from the buildings nobody had gotten to yet. There was no need for any orders to be spoken, we fighters formed up while the sappers slipped behind houses, sacrificing care for efficiency.

“Just like home?” I asked as Simone took position next to me.

“Yes, the shitty parts,” she replied, tone flat.

I couldn’t stop the grin from splitting my face. There was something about a secured fight that always made me want to laugh. Whether they were a weak attempt to kill us, or merely a diversion, somebody would need to put the suckers back down.

The Dead met our shield wall. Then they met our blades.

I have heard of spirits that reenacted battles bygone. Graceful in their brutality as they slew one another using the martial arts of those they imitated. These were not such. These were weaponless creatures that moved with no cohesion.I had no doubt that if Krem’s group encountered similar opposition they would be able to work through it without too much hassle. Especially since Dalish was with them.

The last building burst into flames.

The last thought had barely settled itself in my mind as an assurance, when a bloodied Krem stumbled into the road out of an alley.

 

-

I waited for Antoine to knock the corpse back with his shield. I needn’t have bothered - the force of his blow had the steel rim crush the skull of the unfortunate woman’s re-animated body. The red-stained skirts hindered the creature’s unnatural movement and it dropped like a stone.

It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but I briefly closed my eyes in a struggle to suppress the coiling rage in my gut. Past encounters with apostate Mortalitasi using young women’s bodies to construct harems undermined any apathy I may have had for the walking dead.

Shamblers always made me yearn to get my hands on the caster responsible. To feel their hot blood spilling over my hands. This made it a bit difficult to keep myself in check when something more mundane was the cause. It robbed me of a satisfying goal.

I swung my sword at what used to be a balding old man. It didn’t even try to defend itself. Encounters like these reminded me of the time Antoine had collected vegetables past their prime from the city’s dump for us to practice swordsmanship on. Of course, back then we’d only had sticks, which resulted in a mess far harder to explain to the guard when they caught us splattering some noble’s mosaic stone walls than would have been ideal. Of course he’d tried to take the fall. Of course I hadn’t let him. Turns out a prison cell isn’t much colder than some doorway in a cul-de-sac.

I whipped around when I heard the shout, Wilder I think it was. I had to step around Antoine to see the cause of the commotion. I immediately had to stop to get a handle on the rage again.

Krem crouching on one knee and leaning on a hand, just beyond the shadows of an alley. His helmet was missing and there were three deep scores across the front of his breastplate as if something large and clawed had swiped at him and just barely been prevented from shredding his chest. He was also missing a pauldron and the leather gambeson underneath was scorched black. Blood matted down what fringe had not been singed off and I could swear the leg planted in the dirt was stained dark where it shouldn’t have been. His face was sweaty and covered in dirt.

Rocky was the first one at his side, seeming to appear just in time to catch the Lieutenant from toppling over entirely. The dwarf grunted under the armoured bulk. “Fucking nug brains. Krem, what happened? Where are the others?”

“E-envy demon,” Krem managed to cough, I could see him struggle with the words from pain. Couldn’t have been emotion. That wasn’t Krem’s style. “Showed up as me while we were spread out - scouting out the area around the inn. Turned them against me.”

_ Fuck _ .

“Bloody piss fuck,” Rocky spat, “Skinner, anything we can use as a makeshift bed left?”

“I can see if there’s anything left in any of these buildings, but your crew generally do a thorough job.”

“Just our luck to have had Stitches in the other group.” I heard someone mutter.

We spread out in a defensive formation as Rocky and Skinner did their best to tend to Krem’s wounds. Fortunately most were superficial, with the long gash on his upper leg being the worst, its location making it particularly difficult to bind without stripping away our Lieutenant’s gear.

He had lost his weapon in trying to escape, so one of the sappers handed him a spare waraxe.

There was a commotion down the road the others had headed down earlier, causing everyone to drop what they were doing and take up formation. Those of us with shields locked into position as the stealthier ones dodged to crouch behind whatever cover they could.

I didn’t know what to expect. Really, what the fuck does an  _ envy _ demon even look like? For all I know we’d have to deal with a raging two-headed cow.

“How does an Envy measure up to a Pride, Lieut?” Antoine asked, seemingly snatching the question from my mind.

Krem coughed and grinned bitterly, “smaller, but bastard’s tougher than it looks.”

“You’d almost be able to say... _ enviously _ .” one of the sappers sniggered. Nobody else laughed.

The last thing we expected was the other groups callsign pattern getting whistled. Though after what Krem had said, we should have.

Skinner looked at Rocky, who nodded. I was glad for the mild buffer my helmet provided, Skinner’s whistles could be deafening.

I tried to keep an eye on the others with me as much as I did on the group that came around the corner. This wasn’t the kind of shit we trained for. It suddenly made that much more sense why the Chief had sighed the way he did when we first saw the Breach appear. It was way too disconcerting to see a Krem leading the group to us, when we had a Krem right in our midst.

“Rocky-” the newly arrived Krem started, but the dwarf interrupted him before he could say anything more.

“Hold it right there. Until we can sort this fucked up shit out, none of you are coming any closer.”

New Krem’s expression turned stony. He almost managed to hide the flinch of hurt I’d seen shoot across his features. I almost expected to hear Rocky get stripped down something fierce, but then New Krem noticed his mirror image within our ranks. His eyes grew wide before narrowing.

I immediately didn’t know whether I believed Old Krem’s story as much as I had mere minutes ago. I tried to catch Antoine’s eye, but he’d already been watching me for a reaction and nodded.

He reached to tap Rocky on the shoulder. “Perhaps it would be best if we first divest ourselves of a potential threat within our midsts.”

The dwarf had clearly been thinking down the same line, as his only move was to look at the wounded Krem in our midsts. He fixed Old Krem with a look and jerked his head in the direction of New Krem. His meaning was clear.

“What?!” Old Krem gasped, disbelievingly. “You want me to go near that  _ thing _ in this state? I’ll die in seconds!”

A pair of shackles appeared in Rocky’s hands, “If you don’t go, there’s only one thing we can do.”

Old Krem scowled, “a pity.” A cold sensation ran down my back.

He got to his feet without a flinch, it was smooth - far too smooth for someone that’s supposed to be that injured. Rocky dropped the shackles and went for his weapon, but Old Krem was already melting into a puddle of goo before he’d even fully stood up. I was torn between slicing at the melting form and stepping back from whatever it was. By the time I saw it though, I could barely react. Still staring at the collapsing illusion I noticed the air ripple, something small and pale grew into existence, but rapidly expanded in size, moving towards Antoine. I pushed my partner out of the way. Before I could follow him down, whatever it was screamed into my side. The world inverted before I hit a surface, and darkness swallowed me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never known Eisen to walk away from a battle sequence, but this means I get to decide whether One & Two survive. *rubs hands together*


	31. To Each His Own Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion of the Therinfal mission while Twitch slowly implodes from want of news.

_Inquisitor,_

_The demon was clever enough to impersonate everyone from Seeker Pentaghast, to the Chief, to even me at one point, but we caught it and put it down. There wasn’t much left of the body after we killed the thing, but it had missives with useful information. Most of them confirm what we already knew – the Elder One planning to kill Empress Celene and march an army of demons across Orlais – but I’ll pass them to Sister Leliana regardless._

_The demon also held some items the Inquisition might find handy. Hope they help._

_Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi_

 

Krem tended to read aloud as he wrote. It was neither obvious nor intentional, but I’d learned that if I perched nearby I could know the contents of any letter he sent. Krem was pissed the first couple times he caught on to me, but eventually he figured it was just me – better I be in a spot to overhear than some random asshole. I glared everybody else out of ear shot so he finished his missives in peace and relative privacy.

“Why don’t you say the simple truth?” I teased as he finished, pronouncing his own name as he signed it. “We pounded the twat into a fine paste but Meck is a sick fuck and sifted through the goop and came up with a sack of runes and gold. Early Satinalia, you’re welcome, love Kremmie.”

“This is why you’re not allowed to write the official correspondence, Twitch,” Krem replied evenly. “How’s Two?”

“Inconsolable,” I answered with a sigh. “Most of that is probably from the fever, though. Once we can get him clear-headed we can make him understand what happened. The sooner we get home, the better.”

“Home?” Krem pressed, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile.

“Skyhold. You know what I mean.”

“Dangerous for a merc to claim a home, Twitch,” he chided.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s an impenetrable fortress where we can be safe and care for our wounded. Also, our insanely well-paying employer lives there. I’m _clearly_ an idiot to feel any attachment to it.”

“If the Chargers get fired, do you stay behind in Skyhold or do you follow us?” Krem countered. “Which one is your family?”

“If home is where you heart is,” I argued, matching his smile with one of my own, “and the Chargers are cared for in Skyhold, then I’m going to call Skyhold home... _for now_.”

Krem snorted a laugh and waved me away. “Go see if Stitches needs any help, wiseass. The sooner we get everybody on their feet the sooner we can go... _home_.”

I flipped him the bird as I stalked off, and his laugh followed me to the tent we’d set aside for Stitches.

“I don’t want to see you if you aren’t bringing boiling water and bandages,” the chirurgeon’s voice cut through the air as I parted the tent flap. I froze, let the flap fall, and went in search of supplies. Dalish had a fire going a few paces away, with a makeshift pot rack bearing a row of repurposed flasks at various stages of boiling. Squirrel was sitting cross-legged at the edge of the fire, tearing strips off a tattered bedsheet.

“Where’d you find that?”

She nodded towards the village, now some miles away. There was a smudge of smoke on the horizon to mark its location, still, hours later. “One of the houses didn’t have any bodies in it. Cupboard full of clean laundry. Nice place. Siren thinks it was somebody rich enough to have more than one house; like some merchant who lives in a city part-time and had this place as a _retreat_ or some shit. Can you imagine? Having _two houses_?”

My grandparents had a condo in Florida they’d eventually retired to, but for the majority of my life we’d taken vacations at a second home. It wasn’t often I was reminded how _stinking fucking rich_ I had been. I had considered myself pretty average, which only made it worse.

“Lucky for us – and them – they were out of town,” I said instead, with a shrug. “You sure those are clean?”

“Yeah. Boiled it.”

I felt my eyebrow rise of its own volition. The sheet in her lap was dry, if tattered. We hadn’t been in camp long enough for it to have dried.

She rolled her eyes and tipped her chin towards Dalish, who was studiously tending the fire and doing her best to ignore us.

“Riiiiight,” I said, nodding as I caught on. “Old elven trick.”

“What’s that?” Dalish asked, turning around.

“Nothing. Any of those near boiling?”

She plucked three of them off the pot rack with an empty leather sack to protect her hands and handed them to me. “Take half a dozen of the bandages Squirrel is rolling up, and you’ll have the price of admission.”

Squirrel stuffed the rolled sheet strips into another sack and draped it over my neck so I didn’t have to put the water flasks down. “Bring the sacks back, so the next person who needs in there has something to carry this shit in with.”

She held open the tent flap and I ducked inside.

“I don’t want to see you if you aren’t-“

“Fuck you, you grumpy fuck, I’ve got your boiling water and your bandages.”

“Right. Put it there on the table and don’t-“

“I’m here to help, asshole.”

“You’re here to... oh. Oh. Okay. Well.”

“You’re not even doing anything right now, are you?”

Stitches sighed. He was standing between two cots... actually, _hovering_ was probably the better term. There were two other cots in the room, set at distant corners from where the Chargers healer was overseeing his patients. One was occupied – Meck was seated cross-legged and upright, careful scraping demonic ectoplasm off his arms and armor into carefully labeled flasks that we were taking back to the Inquisition. They apparently had a team of mages poised to study this shit. The other was empty, presumably meant for Stitches to sleep on tonight. As if he would sleep.

The cots he danced between held the still forms of One and Two, our casualties in the fight against the Envy demon the day before. One had been overwhelmed at the very beginning of the battle, when she’d lunged to take the blow meant for Two. Two had flown into a rage when One fell, and took the brunt of the abuse from the Envy demon before the rest of the Chargers cut it to ribbons. He’d caught some particularly nasty poison off the demon’s claws and plunged into a feverish delirium, holding onto One’s body and howling.

Once we’d gotten him peeled off and knocked out, he’d started ranting in his sleep. Stitches had segregated him, presumably to make sure what he’d gotten wasn’t contagious. I was standing near enough to hear, though, and knew the real reason.

“Simone,” the Charger we knew as _Two_ had been pleading. “Simone, please, wake up.”

Stitches was protecting his secret, until the man could wake up and fend for himself.

“How is she?”

“Better than her brother,” Stitches replied. One tilted her head a bit in her sleep. She wasn’t feverish like Two, but she also wasn’t _dead_ as her sibling had obviously believed. “Poultice already drew out the worst of it. She’ll be well enough to move by tomorrow, thanks to the pack of potions the Inquisition sent us out with.”

“You think we could have saved Bridger if we’d had potions like this, then?”

Stitches shrugged. “No use wondering. Lots of people would be alive if they’d had better resources when they were lookin’ to die.”

“Cynic.”

“Realist,” he countered.

“And Two’s fever?”

“Not sure how much of it is poison from the demon and how much is his own nightmares. He’s awful attached to his sister.”

There was something about the way Stitches said _sister_ that spoke of... mistrust, maybe? It was tempting to prod, to try to find out what Stitches had heard in Two’s fevered ramblings that made him question these two’s cover story.

On the other hand, I was standing on the precipice of a bottomless lie when it came to the backstory the rest of the Chargers believed about me. If One and Two weren’t what they seemed, I would be a giant flaming hypocrite to pry.

“Can we rig up a litter and get on the road tomorrow?” I asked instead.

Stitches frowned at me. “Maybe. You in a hurry to get back to Skyhold?”

“Waiting on news,” I answered. “Hoping those letters I sent out got answered.”

“You haven’t been away very long. Your usual turn around on letters was, what? Four weeks? Six?”

He was right. We all couldn’t help but keep track of how much correspondence everybody else was receiving. We would sit in a circle around a courier and listen while he read off names. Some people got a lot of mail. Some people never got any. You noticed.

I shrugged. “A guy can dream.”

“Well, _Two_ is proof enough of that. I want his fever broken before we move him. I can’t watch him as well on the road. And they both have poultices that need changing daily until the risk of infection is passed. You might have as much as a week to wait before I’m willing to break camp.”

“You could tend them better in Skyhold,” I countered.

Stitches laughed in my face. “Thanks for the bandages. Get out.”

 

*

 

He had stopped charging admission by noon the next day. I took to spending my spare time – as we all had a lot of it – helping out where I could. One needed to be held up while the poultice and wraps were changed, and more than once Two lashed out in his delirium and had to restrained lest he hurt the woman he was so damn worried about. Stitches eventually agreed to sleep and let me watch, once I promised to wake him the second anything changed.

One – whose real name was Simone, I would wager, based on Two’s feverish rants – woke up first, as dusk settled into full dark the third day after her injury. Stitches was asleep, Two was quiet, and the only person around to see her shift gently into consciousness was me.

“Not dead?” her voice ghosted out from between cracked lips.

“Despite your attempts to the contrary, no,” I answered, and smiled at the weak upturn at the corners of her mouth. “You nearly got yourself killed, asshole.”

“I know,” she sighed.

“Two could have taken that hit better than you.”

“I know.”

“It’s none of my business, but you should know... he’s been asking for _Simone_.”

She didn’t answer right away. She’d only just woken up, after all; it might be a bit before the mental gears were lubed and running right again. I didn’t want her to think she owed me an explanation, or that I was waiting for an answer, so I just kept talking.

“He lost his shit when you fell. He’s in worse shape than you, honestly. I know it’s too dark to see, but he’s about three paces to your right in the next cot over. His fever gets worse at night; Stitches was hoping it would break tonight but just in case it doesn’t, I don’t want you to get unduly worried. He is improving and Stitches and Dalish need space to work. If you’re awake, stay in your cot. You’re better off sleeping.”

She nodded, the gesture barely visible in the shadows of the tent. I pushed off the stool and started towards where Stitches slept, intending to keep my promise and wake him now that One had regained consciousness.

Her hand darted out to grasp at my hand as I passed by. I could have broken her hold with scarcely a thought; she was weak and not trying to physically stop me. I paused, letting her fingers ring my wrist.

“Antoine,” she said softly. “If it helps, if he isn’t responding to _Two_ , maybe he’ll answer to Antoine.”

“Simone is One and Antoine is Two?” I teased softly.

“Says the man named Twitch,” she weakly fired back.

“Will,” I confessed softly. “Once upon a time, my name was Will.”

“I like Twitch better.”

“So do I, One.”

She released me and her hand dropped wearily back to the cot. Her breathing slowed as I continued on my way to Stitches’ cot, and she was fast asleep again by the time I woke the chirurgeon.

He accepted my report mutely, and then pushed up out of bed to check on One and Two. Noting no change for the worse, he stumbled back across the tent and went to sleep. “Might as well rest while you can,” he muttered to me as he settled back into the bedding on his cot. “Looks like his fever broke. We could be on the road tomorrow.”

I took his advice, although I wasn’t willing to outright leave. The fourth cot was open, on the other side of the tent – we’d set it up when we first made camp and there was no reason to move it – and I dropped onto it fully clothed. The temptation to sit up and allow myself to hope that news of Ophelia – or Opie herself – would greet me upon our imminent return to Skyhold was a bigger threat than before. I closed my eyes and willed myself into sleep.

I woke in the weak twilight that precedes dawn. It was cold yet at this elevation, even though the lowlands we would cross to return to Skyhold were well into Spring. The air inside was warm, but my breath would be steaming if I had slept elsewhere; Stitches never tolerated cold in his medical tent.

I was the first awake; I laid still and listened to three distinct breathing patterns caught in the slow rhythm of sleep. Once I realized _we will head back to Skyhold today_ there was no chance of going back to sleep. Wild hope winged through me and I pushed upright. Someone – probably Stitches – had thrown a blanket over me and the thick wool puddled in my lap as I worked to pull my hair back into a semblance of order, tying it tightly at the base of my skull. I took silent stock of the room as I tied off the leather, more out of long habit than any conscious thought.

There was an empty bed.

Four cots. Four people. My cot. Stitches’ cot still contained the healer. Two was laying on his side on his cot.

One was missing.

I slipped off my cot and rose silently to my feet. It took a moment for me to wake up enough to remember I had _heard_ three people in the tent besides myself. I circled around the walls of the tent to where I could see over Two’s shoulder.

One was squished onto the cot with him, her head buried into his shoulder, his arm slung over her waist. It seemed she was clinging to the front of his shirt, even in her sleep. I wasn’t a healer, but at a glance it seemed Two’s fever had broken and he was rested easily for the first time in days.

Stitches’ hand on my shoulder made me jump, but he pressed downward to hold me still. With a finger to his lips half-hiding a sly smile, he gestured for me to follow him outside.

“Let them sleep a little longer,” he counseled as the cold morning air stabbed into my lungs. “Krem will be awake soon. Run tell him we can safely move these two today. Rocky was working on litters, but I think we can get by with just one. They’re fairly light.”

“Will do, Stitches.”

I trotted off to find the Lieutenant and mentally filed away the little episode with One and Two. Whatever their story was, whatever they had been before, they were Chargers now. I would guard their secrets as closely as I did my own.

“Krem!” I called as I neared the tent the ‘Vint was sharing with Siren, Squirrel, Skinner, and Meck.

“What?” he called back, voice yet heavy with sleep.

“The twinsies are awake. Sort of. Stitches said we can leave today. He wants them both on one litter. Something about it being easier on him to be an overprotective nursemaid.”

“I did not!” the chirugeon’s voice drifted over the sounds of the awakening camp.

“No rush,” Krem announced in a mumble. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was rolling over to go back to sleep. “Full dawn. Then breakfast. Then we’ll break camp. See how far we get.”

“Krem?”

“Full dawn,” he repeated.

Fucker was going back to sleep.

I stared at the tent flap for a long minute, considering storming in and upending him from his cot... but he’d had a long few weeks before now and was looking at some hard days on the road with the injured. I couldn’t begrudge my Lieutenant an extra hour of sleep.

I mean, I _could_.

I kicked up a bit of dust on my way back to the fire. The longer it took for us to get back to Skyhold, the more likely I was to have news when we arrived. I could wait. I could be patient. I could keep telling myself that until it was the truth.

 

*

 

It was a week and a stinking half. We hit bad weather, bears, flooding, and a nasty backslide in Two’s condition that prompted a two-day pause in our progress.

By the time we got back to Skyhold, Bloomingtide was nearly over and the spring thaw had descended with such ferocity on the mountains that we had to forge _another_ new road up to the pass inhabited by the Inquisition. The other roads were washed out by floodwater from snowmelt.

I had to help Stitches move Two into the infirmary – he was mostly better, but all of us felt better if Gwen took a look at him. She praised Stitches’ abilities and sent Two on his way the next morning.

While Two spent his night under the watchful eye of Gwen, I spent it drinking in the Tavern.

Drinking _heavily_.

Sera had gone with the Boss when Adaar left to solidify Inquisition holdings in Ferelden post-Haven destruction. Aillis was entrenched into the Inquisition soldiery; she and Eamon were helping bring disenfranchised Templars into the fold and literally never available to talk. I could not get her alone to ask her about the letter, and my pride wouldn’t let me try to ask about Opie in front of a pack of soldiers.

I was only looking for Sera and Ailis because I’d gotten exactly one letter, and it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

 

_Twitch,_

_I got a letter from my cousin._

_She said she’d rather not hear from any of us than hear confirmation you were dead._

_I’m going to do her a favor and keep her from looking stupid down the road and **fucking kill you**_ **.** _When she finally surfaces she won't have to feel bad about being fucking stupid and vanishing for no reason at all._

_You’d better find her before I find you._

_Senna_

 

I didn’t think she was serious... but I’d been wrong before.

I took the letter to Bull.

“I won’t let some alienage elf put a knife in you while you sleep, Twitch,” he sighed. He almost sounded disgusted by the thought. “Sounds to me like she’s the type who doesn’t deal with emotion well and subsumes everything into rage.”

I blinked at him, admittedly a bit owlishly. “You got that from one little letter?”

“Am I wrong?”

I shook my head and then slumped into a chair at the table beside him. “This was the only news, Chief.”

“Only one thing to do, kid.”

“Yeah?”

He turned away slightly and pitched his voice to carry – which is to say, the roared to rattle the rafters.

“Cabot! This man needs a _drink_!”

If the Chief was paying, I wasn’t arguing. If I couldn’t get news from Opie, I would take the next best thing: forgetting I missed her.


	32. Ignorance is Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...whether you want it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am entertaining an Eisen at my home currently. Welcome to America, friend!  
> We are playing host to a wild Coffeeguru who is appearing as much as work allows her.  
> And in the very near future I will also have an Aelie at my house!  
> So forgive me if I miss an update or post late. There is magic happening here.  
> ...also my internet went down. But the house full of amazing people is a way cooler excuse.

I was delightfully hungover when I was dragged out of bed by Siren and Meck for daily training, just before dawn on our first morning back in Skyhold.

I was sopping wet, having drank my fill before upending a bucket of water over my head to wash away some of the sour-smelling post-drunk sweat I was creating, when Gwen emerged from the main doors of the Keep. She was apparently in a fantastic mood, because she was singing at a decibel level generally reserved for dragons and battlefield commands.

“And so I wake in the morning and I step outside and I take a deep breath and I get real high and I scream from the top of my lungs _what’s going on_?”

“Is she alright?” Daft asked, half to himself, as she launched into the _hey yeah yeahs_ of a passing rendition of 4 Non Blondes’ infamous ear worm.

I shook my head. “Fucking weirdo. She’s just singing, she’s fine.”

“Hey yeah yeah, I said hey! What’s going on!” She was really putting her lungs into it.

“I guess I never thought about that,” Skinner admitted. It was rare for her to chime in with an opinion about anything, but Gwen seemed to be drawing her out of her shell. “Different world, different music. Probably different instruments?”

“Different stories,” Dalish chimed in, surprising me further. “Different books, different _everything_.”

“Different everything,” Siren repeated, her voice flat as if she was nearly struck mute.

“Do you… do you think they know about the Maker there?” Meck asked. “Andraste was Alamarri, she wasn’t… they didn’t have Andraste in Gwen’s world, did they?”

“Of course they did,” Krem scoffed. “She just isn’t real. Remember? It’s a _story_ to her. We’re just a fairy story in her world.”

“If Andraste is just a story-“ Meck pressed.

“They have a different name for the Maker,” I told him, the silence finally unbearable. “A hundred names for the Maker.”

“How do you-“

“She told him,” Bull interrupted, appearing from seeming thin air. “Twitch speaks a bit of Qunlat, after all, like Krem and Rocky. You know how happy she is to talk to people.”

The Chief throwing Rocky under the bus right alongside me – I shrugged as the dwarf held up his fingers to indicate how very little he did know – diffused the suspicion I’d managed to raise. I looked up, thinking to broadcast my gratitude with my expression, but the Chief was towering over me.

“Mail, kid. You’ve got another letter.”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” I breathed, intentionally speaking the correct deity’s name as I snagged the proffered paper from my Chief.

I tore open the seal, glancing and the handwriting on the front just enough to know it wasn’t from Ophelia.

 

_Twitch,_

_Good to hear from you, stranger! Higgins and I almost didn’t get this because… well. I hate to have to admit it but nobody around here knows us by our given names. Higgins is Nuggins now – that’s a great story, you can’t imagine – and everybody is calling me Knickers. We’ve got a third, she’s running the Friends around here; only name we put into print is Knuckles._

_Knuckles, Knickers, and Nuggins. If you want to write us, put the symbol I’ve got in the margin as the addressee in Ostwick. It’ll get here._

_That said, I told Knuckles about your girl. She’d already gotten word from Denerim about a Friend on the run and we’ve been passing around the description you sent. She hasn’t been in Ostwick, and our best information says she hasn’t been in Kirkwall, either. It’ll be a bit before we hear back from Charade in Tantervale but the likelihood of someone who’s had a bad run-in with Templars aiming for Tantervale is about zero. Better bet in the Marches is Hasmal or Wycome. Wycome had some weirdness with the Duke that is pretty suspect… it’s not a bad place for elves now since somebody stuck a knife in him… but it’s a long ass ways from Val Royeaux, so I wouldn’t bet on it. We don’t have Friends in Hasmal but Charade will get on it._

_Knuckles is reminding me as I write this that she almost got recruited by the Nightingale to join your Inquisition. Nuggins and I talked her out of it because of your warning about Haven. And Haven is toast now! So, yeah. Thanks for that. We’re in good shape where we are because of you – we owe you one. If finding your Friend pays even a portion of that debt, we’ll never quit searching._

_Karl “Knickers” Glennon_

_PS Morty says we’ll only tell you the story of his nickname if you come visit. He’s a dick like that._

 

There was another slip off paper folded in with the larger letter, sized for a raven’s message tube and covered in handwriting I didn’t recognize.

_Paraded through Kirkwall as hero and winner! Nuggins, Nuggins! Stubborn and vicious!  
Tripped up a viscount, now he’s for dinner! Nuggins, Nuggins! Of course he’s delicious!_

_There are two things that always get dropped when I’m around… Glen is one and he’s named for the other._

I had to read it through a few times to figure out the point… but whoever their friend Knuckles was, she’d taken upon herself to sell out their nicknames. I couldn’t help but wonder whose knickers were hitting the floor… definitely not Higgins’, maybe Glennon’s? And why _Knuckles_? It was a question for another day, another letter.

“Well?” Bull asked as I refolded the missive.

“No news,” I answered. “There’s people looking, though.”

“Gimme.”

I handed him the letter without hesitation. Glennon – Knickers! – hadn’t written anything I couldn’t tell the Chief, and this _Knuckles_ person could have been anybody. If the Chief could use this to narrow the net and find Opie, more power to him.

“Huh. He’s right. Wycome is the most welcoming but makes the least sense for the direction she was heading. If she meant to go that far east, she would be better off travelling with those two Templars, at least as far as Jader. There’s no way she took ship out of Val Royeaux, not with Orlais in a Civil War. _Maybe_ she took ship out of Val Chevin or Cumberland, but an armed escort to Jader makes more sense, and the elf I met wasn’t dumb.”

I shrugged. “Dumb enough to cut ties and run off after assuming Sera and I were dead.”

“Point taken. No, she had something in mind. What did her letter say again? _Only place an elf could go_?”

“Yeah. Sera’s not here or we could go get it for you to read.”

“I’ll ask her when she gets back.” He rubbed his chin with one hand, the other hand cradling his elbow against his chest.

Anything else anyone might have said was sidetracked by Gwen’s singing voice announcing her approach. Loudly.

“Take me out to the black, tell ‘em I ain’t coming back. Burn the land and boil the sea, you can’t take the sky from me.”

“Maker’s anus, she’s in rare form today,” Wilder laughed.

“News came yesterday that the Boss is on her way back,” Bull informed us. “The little spy’s been in high spirits ever since.”

“Kremmie!” she called as she drew near. I eased out of her line of sight, Siren and Bull providing cover.

“Good morning, Gwen,” he greeted her.

“I need some help moving a bath tub.”

“You need… what?”

“Volunteers! I’m paying.”

“I’m in!” Meck chirped.

While Gwen herded a handful of Chargers off to help with whatever trouble she was getting in to, Krem and I walked up to the Commander’s office. Krem had been let in on the plot to teach Cullen Qunlat and was going to pitch in on lessons to improve his own grasp of the language. I was, of course, still on the hook to help, but introducing the idea of Krem as tutor to Cullen was next on the agenda.

I didn’t have my heart in it. If Adaar was coming home, that meant _Sera_ was coming home.

And maybe I could get some more answers about Opie.

 

*

 

“You don’t know what yer askin, Twitchy,” Sera said, shaking her head. Gwen had bribed a dozen Chargers into hauling the wounded Adaar brought back up to the infirmary – she was a fantastic source of pocket money – and I had taken the opportunity to follow Sera into the tavern when she’d ridden into Skyhold in Hellen’s wake.

“I think I do,” I argued. “She sent you a letter. She _must have_ sent me a letter. I want it.”

“I’m not talking about this with you,” Sera said, and shut her door in my face.

I stared at the door for a minute in shock after hearing the click of the lock. She knew something. There was no other explanation.

Somebody knew something about what had happened to Opie and they weren’t telling me.

A petulant sort of anger sparked in my chest.

I didn’t stop to think. I set my shoulders, gritted my teeth, and decided _this door is going to fucking open_.

The lock and latch hardware came loose from the wood and clattered to the floor when I shoved against the handle. The door swung open gently an inch.

I laid the flat of my palm against the panel and pushed it against the far wall with a bang.

As I stepped into Sera’s room, a flash of movement caught the corner of my eye.

 _Bitch is going to shoot me_ , I realized far too late.

Luckily, I was her Friend. Rather than reach for her bow, she leapt to the window. She was disappearing onto the roof as I straightened out of an instinctive duck.

“Sera!” I called, realizing as my voice echoed off the walls of the Skyhold courtyard that it had come out as a bellow.

She turned at stared at me a moment, wide-eyed, before shaking her head quickly and then scampering across the shingles.

“Damnit!” I dashed to the window and pulled myself through. She was an _elf_ though, and her ribs were far narrower than mine. The gap she had slithered through effortlessly was a trial for me to maneuver my torso through. She was clambering up the peak as I tumbled free, and I rolled to my feet and gave chase.

“Twitch!” Krem called from the courtyard far below. I ignored him.

Sera was scaling the wall to the battlement when I reached the peak of the tavern roof. She didn’t seem to remember how much time I’d spent on rooftops with Ophelia; she seemed shocked at the rate I was gaining on her.

“Give me my letter!”

“Fuck off!” She swung her leg over the edge of the battlements and turned right, racing towards the northern tower.

I was slowed by the ascent up the walls – they were a sheer rock face, after all – but that was nothing to the deceleration I experienced when I reached the top and Bull tackled me to the flagstones.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?”

“She is holding something back! She’s got… get off, me Chief! She’s got a letter. She’s got a letter for me from Opie, she’s got to. I know she does. Let me _up_.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” he said, mostly to himself, as he lifted me up with one massive hand gripping the back of my neck. I was being _scruffed_. The indignity of it all was infuriating.

“Put. Me. _Down_. Chief.”

Bull’s eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

Self-preservation kicked in and I snapped my jaw shut. “Sorry, Chief. But she knows something about Opie and if she ditches me now she’ll… I don’t know. But she didn’t say she didn’t have a letter she said she wasn’t talking about this with me and damnit, Chief, I’m spending all this time looking for her and there’s information _right here_ and-“

“Give me one reason to believe you’re not another Envy demon.”

“I’m- what?”

“You just tried to get in my head and make me put you down. Give me one reason not to toss you off the side of the keep. One.”

When dangling in the air from the neck by a Qunari who is torn between fear and rage, there is one possible option: begging. I opted for my native tongue. “Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker I’m not a demon, Chief, I swear to God and the Maker and sweet mother Mary please for fuck’s sake don’t kill me it’s just the willpower I used to forget where I came from it’s what Opie said I could do I can will shit to happen I never mentioned it because it would freak you out please for the love of god don’t chuck me over the side Chief _please_.”

He started to laugh, and the pit of my stomach turned to ice. This was it. I was dead. He was tossing me to my death and I’d never find Opie, I wouldn’t be around to protect Gwen, nobody would ever know-

“I wouldn’t drop you off the side,” he chuckled as he set me down. “If I really thought you were a demon, I’d split you in half. The real Twitch knows how to dodge that.”

I took a shuddering breath and staggered away from The Iron Bull to cling to the crenelated wall. “You… you were fucking with me? _Chief_. Not cool.”

He tousled my hair and started to walk away. “What did I tell you about the backtalk? If Krem calls you, you answer. You get me?”

“I get you, Chief.”

“We’ll talk about the will shit later. Much later. Maybe never. If you’re like her… I don’t think I want to know.”

“Fair. Permission to beat the information out of Sera?”

He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Denied. I’ll talk to her, see if she’s got a reason for holding back. Let the elf go.”

“Chief-“

“What’d I say about the backtalk, kid?”

“Right. Sorry.”

He nodded once rather than answer and disappeared through a doorway into one of the defunct towers.

I was left standing on the battlements; bruised, angry, and confused. Sera knew something.

Sera had forgotten, it seemed, what it meant to have Friends.

A breeze picked up and I followed in Bull’s footsteps, in the opposite direction Sera had fled.

I didn’t have to fight with Sera.

I knew at least one person who wanted to find Opie as bad as I did, and who wouldn’t give one spare fuck what Bull had to say about it. She’d have a thing or nine to say to somebody who was withholding information from a _Friend_ , much less information about Ophelia.

No, I didn’t have to fight with Sera.

Not when Opie had angry family in the world.

 

*

 

_Senna,_

_Remember Sera? Scrawny little asshole, picked locks for us, used to haunt Emmauld’s manor? She’s the Jenny in Val Royeaux. Well, she_ was _until she joined the Inquisition._

_She got a letter from Opie. Apparently, she’s got a letter for **me** from Opie that she’s not sharing. When I figured out it existed, she just said “you don’t know what you’re asking.”_

_Then she locked me out and ducked through a window. I lost her on the rooftop when she got a lucky break – I got tackled by a Qunari – but I know she knows something. If she won’t give it to me, maybe she’ll give it to you? I don’t know why she’s covering for Opie but if there’s an answer or a clue right here and she’s sitting on it…? I figured you would want to know._

_Twitch_

*

 

I had plenty of time to wait to hear back from Senna. I wrote Nuggins and Knickers back. I avoided Sera like the damn plague. Krem alternated evenings with me in teaching Cullen how to speaking Qunlat. The Chargers trained as a unit and slowly learned every nook and cranny in Skyhold. If we had to defend the Keep, we’d be nearly impossible to root out.

Before any of that had a chance to sooth the wound caused by Sera’s apparent betrayal, I was served up a dish of the best distraction ever crafted.

I was wandering the battlements two days after Hellen returned and saw a trio that stole my breath.

I’d come to terms with hanging out with Varric Tethras. It had helped that I’d met him when I didn’t remember who he was; once the memory returned we’d established an easy acquaintance that didn’t cost me much to maintain.

I couldn’t quite shake the quasi-memory of a hundred hours in a digital version of Thedas where he was _my_ best friend as I became the Champion of Kirkwall.

So to see Varric standing on the northwest tower roof with a tall black-haired man wearing utterly unmistakable armor, the symbol of Kirkwall streaked across his breastplate, and a glaive as tall I was strapped to his back…?

I won’t say I shit my pants. I will say it crossed my mind as a possibility.

There was an elf at his elbow, lithe and female, black close-cropped hair and the Dalish markings of Elgar’nan swirled across her face.

Hawke and Merrill. Hawke and Merrill, in the flesh, _here_.

And Hawke was definitely a mage.

“What’s up, Twitchy?”

I turned to see Siren sauntering up beside me. I tipped my chin towards Varric.

“Champion of Kirkwall up there.”

“What? No way.”

“Who else would it be? He’s smeared with the dragon of Kirkwall and buddied up with Varric. That’s Merrill with him. It has to be him.”

“No way. If Hawke was here, he’d be meeting with-“

Whatever she was going to say died on her lips as Inquisitor Adaar strode up the steps and shook the man’s hand.

“Maker’s mistress, that’s Hawke,” she breathed.

We were in prime position to watch Gwen attempt to spy, get immediately caught by Merrill, and eventually break down into hysterics. The Boss tried to grab for her, and I saw Merrill reach out to keep both the Inquisitor and the Champion from restraining the fleeing Herald.

“Gwen!” Hellen called, and Gwen disappeared.

“What the-“

“She knows something,” I whispered, horrified. “Maker, I think something is going to happen to Hawke.”

“What? No! You can’t know-“

“It makes the most sense,” I hissed back, suddenly full of dread. Didn’t Cindy have a tear-driven rant about some terrible choice? Having to choose between Alistair or Hawke, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t I paid more attention to her? Past Me was _such a fucking asshole_.

Gwen appeared in the courtyard below us, and I leaned over the wall and tried to draw her attention. “Gwen!” I called. Siren echoed me. I hoped she would divert, and I would run down to meet her. I could tell her I knew something was going to happen, tell her something in her own language.

I could help her, right now. I could ease whatever horrible thing she knew was coming. Maybe I could help her prevent it.

There were tears streaming down her face, and she ignored me and ran on.

“Gwen!” I called again.

“Let her go,” Siren advised, laying a firm hand to my forearm. “If it is something terrible she knows is coming, she would either tell Adaar about it, or tell _nobody_. And the look on Adaar’s face is pure confusion and concern. If anybody could fix it, it’s the Inquisitor.”

She was right. _Of course_ she was right. Just because it was bloody _Hawke_ didn’t mean we could break the future. If something bad had to happen to him to get us out of this mess…

I couldn’t think about it. I glanced back towards the tower and saw Hellen graciously withdrawing, Hawke and Varric closing ranks with matching smirks that even from this distance promised trouble.

“I need a drink.”

“I know just the place,” Siren answered, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. She clasped my wrist and dragged me off the wall towards the tavern, and the bliss of ignorance.


	33. Lies of Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A critically important but rewritten-four-times-because-damn transitional chapter.   
> Also, Adamant. Remember what happens after Adamant? No? Go [ here ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4651176/chapters/11864699).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It is a little after midnight on the last day of November, and I haven't updated this story in three weeks.  
> My apologies.  
> We are in the final stages of my major renovation projects (meaning I have a new septic field and a water filter and soon I will have my bathroom back) and very soon my free time will belong to me, rather than the contractors and construction crew. My husband's school has finally tracked down the grant money they lost - just in time for his finals - and so my sleuthing there is nearing an end. And if you happened upon my tumblr about a week ago you might have seen the family photo of the four authors working here on Pillars of Creation. The family photo, if you will. Those three beautiful people have all returned to their places of origin, and while my house is emptier and lonelier for it, I can once again wander around sans pants.  
> So what I'm saying is I had good reason to neglect you, but neglect it still was! I have two more chapters of Will primed and ready to go, and at least two more poised to post elsewhere. I can't promise to post every four days consistently through the holiday (I'm flying to the Midwest for a week which is always unpredictable in terms of writing and posting) but I am here and I am working and things will return to normal soon.

Life in Skyhold fell into a pattern.

Wake up. Train. Avoid Gwen. Get disappointed by the mail. Train more.

Evenings were either spent in the tavern or on one of several tower tops, sparring with Cullen and teaching him Qunlat while the ringing steel covered our words. Krem did much of the teaching for awhile, but in the end what Cullen needed was a native speaker.

Cue me.

I was spared the continuous shunning of Sera by her leaving with Adaar on whatever errand the Inquisitor was running.

I stopped writing Higgins and started correspondence with his Jenny, the enigmatic Knuckles. Once we got through the first heavily guarded letters, she started to let a bit of personality through. If anything, talking to her as a person was more confusing than trying to communicate in code with the Ostwick Red Jenny.

Senna wrote me back a few vague lines about suspecting I was giving her a false lead and then went silent. She said she’d kill Sera if she was holding out, and would kill me if I was throwing shade, so I didn’t press the issue. Sera would get what was coming to her. Little shit.

I would have been concerned about never hearing back from Alistair if the Warden, himself, hadn’t rolled into Skyhold a few weeks after Gwen’s outburst on the ramparts with Hawke.

The little Herald met him on the steps and he grudgingly followed her into the keep. I was in the main hall at the time – running a letter up to Leliana from Bull, since I was one of the few not afraid of her – and came within ten feet of the man. Our eyes met, his widened – and then he was up the stairs and away.

Word in the keep an hour later was that Gwen had introduced him to Enchanter Fiona, a friend of his reputed father, the late King Maric. A fight to rattle the foundations of the keep was rumored to have happened in a magically sound-proofed room in the library; both Alistair and Fiona left the meeting red-eyed and visibly shaken. The story went, Gwen locked them in a room together and forced them into whatever altercation she’d foreseen.

Honestly, nobody wanted to know what Fiona might have told Alistair in that room. Maybe he wasn’t actually Maric’s son? The two of them were fucking juggernauts; I didn’t meet one single solitary person dumb enough to risk their ire by asking them what it was Gwen had known.

Of course, asking _me_ was open season, once anybody realized it was an option.

“Twitch!” the blond former Templar called as he ducked into the tavern a couple hours after his altercation with Fiona. If he had learned something terrible, it didn’t show on his face.

“Warden Alistair!” I called back in greeting, standing up to shake his hand. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“It’s the sword,” he said, a disarming sort of self-deprecating lie. “Solona took the price of it out of my hide. I’m surprised you’ve still got it.”

“It’s taken a lot of repair,” I admitted, and I could almost hear the ideas clicking into place in the minds of the Chargers milling around the tavern. A quick glance assured me that all the shit starters were, indeed, in attendance. It was going to be a rough night.

“Where’s Opie?”

I caught my breath, and his countenance swiftly flowed from friendly to openly concerned.

“Oh no. She’s not here, is she? She’s supposed to be with you. Is she okay?”

“You didn’t get my letter, I take it.”

“No...? Oh. Oh, this is _bad_ , isn’t it? I’m really not going to like this.”

“Pull up a stool.”

Alistair dropped onto a bar stool with aplomb and I sank onto the seat next to him. “She traveled with us for a bit, but took off on her own. Didn’t give me a reason. She met up with a couple of templars, convinced them somehow to escort her into Orlais.”

“Names.”

“Eamon and Aillis.”

His concern ratcheted back a step. “Oh, good. Eamon’s one of the good ones. I’m glad to hear they weren’t in Therinfal when the Lord Seeker lost his mind.”

“They’re here, now. I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

His shoulders tensed, minutely. “Why aren’t they with Opie?”

I let my head droop. It was too much energy to try to meet his gaze, especially since I knew precisely whose concern was really driving his reactions. “Because when Haven was lost, she decided Sera and I and the rest of the Inquisition were dead and she sent letters with Aillis and then vanished. I’ve been looking for her for months. I wrote you immediately, I swear. I thought Solona would know how to-“

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

My head snapped up of its own volition to watch Alistair grimacing as he pushed his palms into his eye sockets.

“There’s a paper trail. She’s going to know I know. Andraste’s nipple tassels, this is _awful_.”

“Are you afraid of Solona, ser?”

He snorted, but neither his expression nor his hands moved. “I’m not _ser_ , not as far as you’re concerned. And _no_ , I’m not afraid of Solona. I know all her tricks. You don’t have to be afraid of a woman to know you don’t ever, ever, _ever_ want her to be mad at you. There are worse fates than pain, Twitch.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Relationship advice, free with every minorly-enchanted sword.”

“Enchanted?”

“Just a minor one.”

“What enchantment?”

“Apparently, it helps you get me in trouble with Solona.”

“You don’t need my help for that.”

“You ain’t kidding.” He sighed and tipped his head back. “Where did you send the letter?”

“Amaranthine. I wasn’t sure how to get a letter to Soldier’s Peak.”

He whooshed out a long breath. “Oh, thank the Maker for small blessings. I’ll write Howe, get him to forward it to Skyhold or just burn the damn thing.”

“Why don’t you want Solona to know-“

“Are you daft?”

“No, that’s me!” Daft called from the other side of the table.

Alistair shot him a sour sort of look and then turned to face me. “Opie’s supposed to be with _you_. She wrote Solona, told her what happened in Amarathine, and Solona immediately blamed herself for pulling out of the arldom. She sent Howe and a contingent of Wardens – mostly former templars – back to the Vigil. Then she... had someplace else to be. Left me to figure out what was happening with the Orlesian Wardens and... a handful of other Warden concerns.”

“Yeah, yeah, top secret, blah blah, back to Opie.”

He snorted again, though this time the humor touched his face. “You sure you don’t want to Join?”

“Completely sure.”

He shrugged. “Now’s probably not a good time. The point is, Solona took Ophelia’s trouble in Amaranthine very personally. She about strangled Durin when he came to tell her.”

“Durin? Gorim Saelac’s bodyguard?”

Alistair nodded. “Warden Durin, now.”

There was no chance of me keeping _that_ reaction off my face; I opted instead to not look to see whether he noticed. What would happen if two potential Heroes of Ferelden were made Wardens? Maker’s Grace, it wasn’t something I’d done, was it? Did this mean there was a real possibility that Opie would be made a Warden?

The thought chilled something deep in my gut and I knew, _knew_ , I had to find Ophelia before Solona did.

I didn’t stop to wonder why.

“Is Solona looking for her to recruit her?”

“Solona isn’t looking for her, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He scooted his stool towards me and dropped his voice. “If Solona knew Opie was in the wind, she’d drop everything – and I do mean everything – and go looking for her. We’d be able to follow the trail of bodies right to wherever Opie was holed up. Which is why we _can’t tell Solona_.”

“What?” I hissed.

“She can’t stray. What she’s doing is too important. And there would be no reasoning with her... I have to keep this quiet. And _you_ have to pretend you never told me.”

It was my turn to press my hands into my eyes. “This is not how I saw this conversation going.”

“Find her,” Alistair said in lieu of a reply. “I don’t care what you have to do. Find her before Solona knows she’s missing. What resources have you tapped?”

“I’ve got Jennies in most of the Free Marches looking,” I answered. “Actually, I have pretty much all the Jennies on alert. That’s most of the major cities in Thedas covered. I thought I had the Wardens looking, but you apparently didn’t know, so no dice there. Bull won’t commit any resources because we don’t want the Qun looking for Opie.”

Alistair went pale. “No. No, that would be _bad_. I never want to come to blows with St- with the Arishok again. And Maker knows Solona would send me in after Opie.”

“So what you’re saying is that Solona will kill _us_ for Opie deciding to sod off into the sunset?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Except not _me_ because I know nothing, remember?”

“Right.”

Alistair patted me on the shoulder and pushed to his feet. “Good talk. Let’s never do it again. I’ve got to, ah, question former Warden Fiona, so I’ll be going. See you around, Twitch.”

“You too, Alistair.”

The tavern door hadn’t yet swung shut behind Alistair when Siren slid into his place.

“Well?”

“He didn’t get my letter. Had no idea Opie was missing.”

“To the Void with Opie! I don’t give two tin shits about your love life, Twitch, I want to know about _him_.”

“Alistair?”

“You’re on a first-name basis with one of the two Wardens who saved Ferelden from the Blight! And _he gave you that sword_! I want this story!”

“Story?” Krem asked as he entered, a faint scratch on one temple declaring him the loser in the nightly spar with the Commander. “Who’s telling a story?”

“Twitch fought with the Wardens in Denerim in the Blight!”

“Now, now, now, I didn’t say that,” I sighed. I would have to tell the story, now, or risk some outlandish tale getting circulated around. I tucked my feet onto the cross bar of my stool, propped my elbows on my knees, and told the highly-edited tale of how I met Alistair in Denerim.

 

*

 

“Well done, kid,” Bull said as we tumbled out of the tavern in search of our beds that night. “I think everything you said was technically true.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chief,” I blithely lied.

He ruffled my hair. “You’ve spent altogether too much time with Krem.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

The next morning dawned cold and more than a little bitter; Alistair and Hawke had ridden out first thing, with Adaar slated to follow in three days’ time. Any chance I might have taken to get more information out of Alistair – about what Gwen was upset about; not about Fiona, I wasn’t _stupid_ – was lost.

It took weeks, but word started to leak out into the general populace of Skyhold about the Wardens holing up in some old fortress in the Western Approach to Orlais and committing atrocities out of some deep-seated but ultimately baseless fear. I was just as confused as everyone else until the phrase _False Calling_ entered the vernacular.

“So the Wardens all think they’re hearing the Calling?” I asked the Commander, in English, during one nightly spar.

He nodded. “You know about the Calling?” he replied in kind.

I shrugged. “I know enough to know that’s bad.”

He shrugged in reply, and the topic shifted, as it was wont to do.

It wasn’t until nearly a week later, when Adaar returned to make plans for a march, that I had anything more than a vague sense of worry. My little bubble of obliviousness was burst by, who else, Sera.

“Little fucking faker face told Hellen I was scared to go! She’s leaving me _here_.” I had been sitting comfortably in the tavern, blissfully ignorant and content to stay that way until my Chief gave me orders or the _fucking mail_ cooperated. She’d descended on me like an avalanche and dragged me off to her room, slamming the door behind us.

“Huh what who? Hi, Sera, what the fuck do you want?”

“Hellen’s leaving me behind because stupid little faker face told her to.”

“Gwen? Are you still caught up on Gwen?”

“Hello! _Yes_.”

I shrugged. “You talk to Senna?”

Her face shifted so she shot pure malice from her eyes. “Yes.”

“Alright. Again, I ask. What the fuck do you want?”

“What’s your problem, huh?”

“You drag me up here, why? To complain? You’ve forgotten your Friends, Sera. You have something Opie meant for _me_ to have, and you’re keeping it from me. But now you want something from me? Fuck you, lady, that’s not how this works.”

Her mouth worked silently for a minute, and I took the opportunity to walk away. She could just stew in that misplaced outrage.

I hoped she choked on it.

Not that I had much of an opportunity to gloat. The Chargers got left control of the keep while the army marched on Adamant, which meant I had guard rotation and actual daily obligations above and beyond training and drinking. Gwen seemed desolate and eager to distract herself, so she was sitting in the tavern more nights than not... all the more reason for me to be scarce.

The news we got was sparse at best. There was a siege, the Inquisition entered the keep, some weird shit happened with the Inquisitor, and then she was on the way home, the remnants of the Wardens in tow. The stories of what actually happened during the battle for Adamant were so varied as to be incomprehensible. Eventually we’d get the Chief to drinking and hear the whole of it, and in the meantime it was above my pay grade.

My search for Ophelia was at a standstill. I had all my lines cast, and until I got new information, I was merely waiting for a bite, a lead, a hint, _anything_. The idea that there was something big in Opie’s letter – the one I _just knew_ Sera had, even if she wouldn’t admit it – was one I returned to often. Senna would kick her ass and she’d give me the damn thing and then I’d know where Opie was and Sera would regret not giving it to me sooner. I just knew it.

I wasn’t about to violate a direct order from the Chief, though. As important as finding Ophelia was, he’d told me to lay off Sera, and I would. Leaning on Senna would take time but I had total faith in Opie’s cousin.

But then Adaar came home and everything changed.


	34. The Sound of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen swallows a thin flask of memory and everybody has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from an airport food court! I've been fighting with the WiFi for half an hour but I emerged victorious! I'm on the move - again - this time to squish the shit out of my nephews while their mama serves her country. The last time I did this, the little plague bringer laid me out for a week. This time there's TWO of them. So hopefully I'm around and can post from my brother's couch. I've had a rough time with these chapters, and I'm not particularly pleased with them, but I need to just put them up and move on.

“Do you hear that?”

It was, easily, the dumbest question of the year. The tavern had gone silent when the first scream echoed through the keep; every man-at-arms in the place had put hand to hilt and slid onto widely planted feet with tense shoulders and clenched jaws.

“Maker’s teats, Wilder, _shut up_.”

When the second scream shattered the peace of Skyhold, I knew it was Gwen.

It didn’t sound like her. It didn’t sound human. But deep down, I knew, _I knew_ , that she’d just gotten the worst news of her life.

Problem was, I knew exactly what that news had to be.

I led the charge out of the tavern, taking the stairs to the main hall two at a time while most of the Chargers paused to get their bearings and try to listen for the source of the sound. I didn’t need to listen for her. Somehow, I knew right where she was.

She was in the main building. She was in the round antechamber that Solas was painting murals in. She was drawing in a ragged breath through a raw throat and she was screaming again, arching her back against the impossible image burned in her retinas.

I didn’t know what she saw. How far south had she been? Had she been blinded by the detonation in the harbor? Had she stood at a window in a wall of glass and watched the shockwave upend everything that had been solid and stable in her life? Had she let go of her husband’s hand, just for a moment, and lost everything in the blink of an eye?

I was through the door and halfway to Solas’ anterchamber when I realized she was directly in front of me. Her hair cascaded over the arm of Commander Cullen as he hauled her bodily out of the hall, Inquisitor Adaar hard on his heels.

“Solas! Bring what potions you have. Whatever you think might help! Vivienne, assist him!”

I didn’t hear the Inquisitor’s voice often, but today she seemed shaken. Less sure. Regretful, even.

I stumbled to a halt in the hall as the trio disappeared through a doorway to my left – held open by the Ambassador, Lady Josephine – and then a moment later Gwen’s scream cut off abruptly.

There was total silence in the hall for the span of three breaths, and then chaos erupted.

“Andraste’s ashes! Was it real?”

“All the glass! And white! Everything white! Why were the walls so _white_?”

“The whole world gone, she said. Demons winning, she said. Can you imagine?”

“The thing that ...rang? And then it... talked? But it was a person! Maker’s teats, it made so much sense at the time and now... I feel like I’ve gone insane.”

“I don’t know what Pad Thai is, but _I want it_.”

“I want that shower!”

“It was a dream, right? But how did we all have the same dream at the same time?”

“Demons!”

“Sod off, weren’t no demons there but the ones the Lady mentioned. That Seer, she was saved by Andraste herself. Just like the Inquisitor, she was. The Inquisitor to close the rifts, the Seer to lead her.”

“Dead, dead, dead,” a woman wailed, finally giving me a face and a voice together that I could latch on to. She was an elf, raven-haired and dressed as one of the higher-ranking serving staff. Probably cared for the rooms of the Inquisitor or one of her advisors. She was curled in a ball just outside the doors to the antechamber, arms wrapped around her legs, tears streaming down her face.

I dodged through the swirling chaos of the room and dropped to my knees beside her.

“Atisha,” I whispered, thinking back hard to what little Elven Ophelia's family had used. “Atisha, Falon.”

She blinked up at me, still hyperventilating, and then buried her head into my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her and willed her breathing to slow, her heart to calm, her nerves to soothe. After a moment, she drew a ragged breath and pushed back.

“Ma serannas. Thank you. But you are not of the People.”

I shrugged. “I had a friend once. Bit of a scholar. She didn’t say much more than _shem_ but you pick up a little here and there.”

She laughed and I risked the question.

“What happened here?”

She closed her eyes and shuddered. “The Inquisitor... she gave... Gwen. Gwen, the Seer? The Inquisitor found... memories, in the Fade. Her own, and the Seer’s. At least, that’s what... what I think happened? When Gwen drank, she... she... she drew everyone near her into the memory with her. We saw... It was her world, I think. The day she came here, the day she fell through the portal in Redcliffe.”

“Everyone?” I glanced around. “Everyone saw? What did they see?”

“Her world. But we were... I was, at least... I was her. I was _her_. I thought like she thought. The things she saw... I knew what they were, how to use them, what they were called. All these things I have no words for... already they fade but at the time? At the time they were _my_ thoughts, _my_ things.”

“What was her world like? I was not here.”

“Clean,” she answered, slowly. “Bright. White walls and glass. Hot water pouring from the ceiling and little metal boxes that men speak through. One man, he was like a crier. I forget the word, now. Already. But he said... he said there were whole cities lost. It was... more people who live in all of Orlais and Ferelden combined, all gone. All _dead_. And the other man? He... he was her _husband_ and he’s _dead_. He’s dead. The Lady... The Lady... The Lady showed him. Burned and broken and and and-“

She was crying again, horrible frame-shaking sobs as she hunched into herself and plowed her face into my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her and let her cry it out.

I knew the horror she was feeling, all too well.

Knowing there were cities lost – cities, plural – was more information than I’d had. Gwen officially knew as much – if not more – than I did.

And if she knew I had even the foggiest idea, maybe she would talk to me about it.

Maker’s molars, would I never come to peace with my decision to stay silent? It seemed so reasonable at the time, but all I’d done since was hide from Gwen and regret.

I hadn’t gotten to the main hall in time, I wasn’t the one to catch her. I wasn’t the one to stand beside her when the truth laid her low, and _god damn it_ I should have been. If she’d known I knew, maybe she would have sent for me. Maybe she...

Maybe I should move the fuck on and stop wasting time on might-have-beens.

“What’s your name?” I asked the black haired elf when she’d mostly stopped crying.

“Lytha,” she whispered.

“Lytha, my name is Twitch. I’m one of the Chargers. It’s nice to meet you.”

She laughed, a sad little breath of a sound, but it was something. “You jest.”

“No, Miss Lytha, I am completely incapable of jesting. I am unjestable.”

She frowned at me comically. “I’m not sure that’s a word.”

“Sure it is. Like I said, I cannot jest.”

She laughed a bit harder, then, shaking her head. “I’m sorry to say I am pleased to meet you, as well, Twitch.”

“Sorry?”

“You Chargers have a reputation for carousing that the Lady Montilyet frowns upon mightily. I will not be able to share her condemnation in the future.”

“Sure you can. Just because I gave you a shoulder to cry on doesn’t mean Skinner won’t try to talk her way into your room some night.”

“Sk-skinner?”

I winked at her. “When you meet Skinner, you’ll get the joke.”

“Ah, but I thought you couldn’t jest?”

“It’s not my joke.”

She pushed me away with another laugh and I used the momentum to roll onto my feet. “You are terrible, sirrah.”

“But you’re laughing, so I’ll take it.”

She smiled up at me, and I ruined it with a roguish wink, making her laugh again. I took the opportunity to leave.

I needed to find the Chief.

I needed to tell him what we knew.

I needed to find something else to do – anything else – before the guilt ate me alive.

Gwen wasn’t supposed to know. I had hoped she would never know. Now that she did, now that I had reason to suspect she was _meant to_ , I had to rethink all my decisions and motivations. Thinking about the past had never been my strong suit; with no leads on Opie, I didn’t have much in the future to distract me.

The Chief, a drink, and a spar were the next best thing. The look The Iron Bull shot me when I came into the tavern said he was already three steps ahead of me; regardless of what other decisions I might have made, joining the Chargers was one I would never regret.

 

*

 

The next morning dawned no better. At least the hangover kept me from thinking.

Inquisitor Adaar was gone. Chief had been expecting marching orders for us – Krem had talked to Adaar briefly about the Chargers going out to tear down Adamant – but she left before actually passing them down. He had us prep to march regardless, and while that only took a couple hours, it was a reprieve.

A runner arrived shortly after change-of-watch in the afternoon, and summoned me to Commander Cullen.

Not Bull. Not Krem. Not a group of Chargers.

Me.

Luckily I was on my own at the moment; if Daft or – Maker save me – Siren had been present I never would have heard the end of it. As it was, I was sitting on the edge of the wall with my head in my hands, desperately trying to figure out where I had gone _so fucking wrong_. Maker’s moustache, I should have just told all the Chargers who she and I were when she first fell out of the air. At least then I’d be done with it.

I followed the runner back to the Commander’s office, and then he disappeared behind a softly shut door.

“It’s hard to keep a secret when you summon me openly, ser,” I chided, trying for humor and probably missing by a mile.

The Commander had his head in his hands, looking so much like I must have that for a moment I wondered if he was hungover as well. He tipped his head to gaze up at me, and his bloodshot eyes – shadowed with dark circles that suggested a sleepless night – spoke more of withdrawals than inebriation. “I need to know,” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

“You need to know... what? That you look like a sack of smashed assholes? For fuck’s sake, man, when’s the last time you slept?”

He tilted his head to one side and chuckled, a harsh ghost of a sound. “I am well aware of my state.”

“Yeah? You intend to fix it?”

He shrugged. “I need to know what happened to Lady Gwen. I need... perspective. She is... she is not well. You’ve recovered, and as such I have hope she will as well. It is not much to go on, and nothing at all to base strategies upon. The Inquisitor left this morning, taking with her the two people I could normally count on to provide a frame of reference for the Lady Gwen. Failing them, I must turn to you.”

“I wasn’t in the building. I didn’t see the memory.”

“I somehow can’t believe you needed to. Rumor being what it was, you likely have more than enough information to fill in the blanks.”

I sighed. Fucker was right. I pulled up a chair and dropped into it heavily.

“For posterity’s sake, nothing I’m about to say ever slipped out of my mouth. Alright?”

“As you said, I don't know this about you.”

“I don’t know exactly what happened. I don’t know who did it, how bad it was, anything. I don’t know where she was, exactly. I don’t know what she did or did not see. And, honestly, I don’t know how I could possibly explain to you what was used on our country. I’ll do my best, but this is a lot of supposition.”

“Fair enough.”

“The explosion that opened the Breach and destroyed the Conclave. It was felt for many miles around, a wave of pressure in the air and rumblings in the ground. That something you’re comfortable with?”

He nodded, frowning a bit. If I was dumbing it down too much, at least I could be sure he was picking up what I was putting down.

“We would call that a _bomb_. You’ve got a word kind of like it – the necromancers do something called a walking bomb – and it’s mostly the same connotation. There are hundreds of different kinds of bombs. The kind that were used the day Gwen and I came here... they’re bad. They’re poison, and they can kill every person within miles instantly. There’s a larger radius of people who will die a bit more slowly. There’s _another_ radius past that where people will get sick and die excruciatingly slow. And then the wind blows the poison in a plume to effect things maybe hundreds of miles away. This poison takes decades, centuries maybe, to degrade. It’s the equivalent of salting the earth _permanently_.”

Cullen’s eyes were slowly growing wider as I explained, and he was completely still by the time I paused for breath. He blinked, once, and I plowed forward.

“We have bigger cities than you can probably imagine. Millions, in one place. The city Gwen and I lived near was home to some three million people, maybe more. It sprawled for dozens of miles in every direction. It was the north end of a long corridor that, all told, contained maybe fifty million people. I don’t know how many are gone, but given we were both told _our world was ending_ I don’t have a lot of faith that there are many survivors. My family was from further west, and I was told at the time that they were safe for the time being. Judging by Gwen’s accent and the stories she was telling in camp right after she woke up, she’s from even _further_ west. I don’t know anything about her beyond that, but it’s possible she’s got some family alive. It’s also very likely that we will never know.”

“So the statement that she has nothing to go back to is not strictly true.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know who said that, but no. As of the moment we left, there were safe places left in the world. There would have to be. How long they lasted is anybody’s guess. There’s no way of knowing who would claim responsibility, whether we had any government left to respond, whether the other governments of the world would respond... imagine it like the Blights here. If every nation in Thedas rises up to fight the Blight, there is a completely different sequence of events than if nations sit out, or take the opportunity to wage war on each other.”

Cullen nodded. “So if there is no way of knowing... is it uncertainty that is driving her distress?”

“I would imagine it was the shock of finding out she’s a widow that caused the worst of it,” I countered. “Probably her in-laws are gone. She was a nurse, so any patients and coworkers she was fond of are gone. Her house, her stuff, her life... all gone. She’s been carrying on like nothing was wrong, because she didn’t remember everything was fucked. She’s probably feeling guilty, for never mourning her husband. For never mourning _anything_. Can you imagine if you’d forgotten everything about Kinloch and then just woke up one morning and had it all come rushing back?”

Cullen shuddered and dropped his eyes, and I knew my point was made. I’d walked for three days in a near stupor after I’d remembered, and I had forgotten it all intentionally, after having two years to come to terms with it. Waking up one morning and realizing Denerim had been gone for months, that the alienage had been wiped off the map taking the Tabris clan with it...? I couldn't decide if that was worse than the way I came to Thedas or not.

“Do you believe she will recover?”

“I do,” I answered without hesitation.

“And what makes you so sure?”

“I survived,” I said with a shrug. “You survived. The Inquisitor survived. She’s tough enough. Now that it’s all out in the open she’ll probably have an easier time with everything. I didn’t have to follow a Qunari to know that a sense of purpose can make all the difference. She was running blind before... now she knows she’s here for a reason.”

“Reason? What reason?”

_No lies, Twitch. No more lies_. “She’s Andraste’s Herald. The title we gave the Inquisitor... it was Gwen’s, all along.”

He eased back in his chair, and I saw it coming – The Big Question. I was going to have to confirm that I believed she and I had been sent here by Andraste. I wasn’t ready to have to put that on the line, but I’d led myself here.

As Cullen opened his mouth to ask, the door behind me popped open.

“Commander Cullen, I have been informed that you were told of Hellen’s mission? Oh- my apologies, I did not know you-“

“It is quite all right, Lady Montilyet,” he replied wearily.

I stood and made my way to the northern door. “Another time, Commander.”

He waved me off, and I slipped out the door as the Ambassador’s voice became notably more accusatory. Apparently the Inquisitor hadn’t made her departure common knowledge.

I started to make my way back to the tavern, stopped, and thought better of it.

I didn’t want to continue the conversation with Cullen. I didn’t want him to come find me, summon me, drag more out of me. Sitting in the tavern was just asking for another interview. Bull wouldn’t provide a buffer between myself and the Commander; if anything he would sit in on the interrogation.

I turned on my heel and walked past the door to the tavern and headed, instead, to the walled garden inside the main hall. With the Inquisitor gone, Gwen a hot mess, and Skyhold in an uproar, there was no better time to properly strike up new acquaintances.


	35. Warhawks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Twitch makes a friend.  
> Also, I swear this isn't meaningless fluff. I promise you, the first step in a critical story arc is hidden in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this with my nearly-four-months-old nephew sprawled across my lap, milk drunk and smiling in his sleep. Its good to be me.

Alistair was easy to find. He was sitting on the long stone bench along one wall, watching the ebb and flow of traffic through the garden with a mindless air.

“I heard if you stare like that long enough, your face will freeze that way,” I offered in lieu of a greeting.

He glanced up, grinned, and scooted over on the bench. “I often told Solona the same thing.”

“Did she hold _any_ expression long enough for it to freeze?”

“Ha! You would be surprised. She stayed mad at Morrigan for five solid days once.”

“Woah. What did she do?”

The smile suddenly vanished off Alistair’s face. “Its... That’s a long story. A tale for another day, perhaps. How goes the mercenary life?”

I shrugged and sat down after he patted the bench encouragingly. “Boring, at the moment. Adaar tore off without giving marching orders, so we’re stuck on standby for a bit.”

The grin crept back onto Alistair’s features. “Boring, you say?”

“I read that Hawke’s mom was an Amell. Any relation to Solona? Any similarities in temperament?”

Alistair’s eyebrows went up. “You want me to introduce you?”

“Fuck yeah I do.”

Alistair clapped his hands and then rubbed his palms together gleefully as he sprung from the bench. “We’ve got a new lease on life, Twitch. Let’s go enjoy it, shall we?”

“Lead on, sirrah.”

We found Hawke on the top of the tower where he’d originally hidden out upon arriving in Skyhold. He was lounging on his side, the crenelated wall leaving sections of his legs and torso suspended in space. He was facing away from the castle, head propped on his right arm, and seeming to stare blindly into the distance. He braced himself and cast a glance over his shoulder as we approached; he wasn’t half as relaxed as he seemed. I suspected he never was. He was out of his armor, though, and stripped down to his shirtsleeves with a fine black wool coat draped over the wall just beyond his head. 

“Garrett Hawke. This is, ah... Twitch.” He turned and cast a befuddled look at me. “Am I really introducing you to the Champion of Kirkwall as _just Twitch_?”

I nodded with a shrug. “I’ve got a big long stupid meaningless name, too. But I’d rather just be Twitch.”

“I hear that,” Hawke chuckled. He sat up and dropped gracefully into a gap in the crenelation, putting out a hand to meet my offer of a firm handshake. “I’m just Hawke. None of this _champion viscounte amell garrett_ what-have-you.”

“Actually we wanted to ask you about the Amell bit,” Alistair admitted, dropping to sit, similarly, on a low point in the wall. “I met Twitch in Denerim, right after the Blight. He’s friends with Solona’s best friend from the Circle, so he did some work with Solona and I before we left the city. He wondered if you and Solona were from the same branch of the Amells.”

“Actually, yeah,” Hawke answered, as if surprising himself. “My mother mentioned it a couple times. Her cousin Revka’s oldest daughter was sent to the Circle in Ferelden as a child. My grandfather and her grandfather were brothers. So she’s, what, my second cousin? Revka had four other children who were mages, too, but what happened to them is anybody’s guess.”

“So Solona had siblings? Four younger siblings?” Alistair seemed strangely delighted. “Four mage siblings. Maybe there are circle records remaining in Kirkwall.”

Hawke shook his head. “They left Kirkwall as a family, smuggled out by their father. It was a family retainer who exposed them as mages after the fact. Had all sorts of letters the father had received while he was trying to secure safe passage for the kids. I guess Revka was pretty adamant about none of the rest of her kids going to the Circle. The oldest – Solona – was moved to Ferelden to keep her mother from breaking into the Gallows and trying to break her free.”

“How old was she?” I asked, falling into a crouch to the face the two legends sitting on the wall.

Hawke shrugged. “I don’t know. Young.”

“So young she doesn’t remember being from Kirkwall,” Alistair added. “Her earliest memories are of being comforted by Opie in the circle tower at Kinloch.”

“Could we try to find her siblings?” I asked Hawke.

The Champion shrugged again. “I suspect that if they knew they were Amells – and are even still alive – they would have surfaced when I got famous, no thanks to Varric. Knowing your family has returned to power with the rumor that I’m a mage should have driven them straight back to Kirkwall once the troubles were ended. I should have gotten a letter at the very least. I suppose Charade might have some information, if you wanted it.”

“I think we should know whether or not her siblings are alive before we even consider passing this on to Solona,” Alistair asserted. “We’ve got some time to kill, regardless.”

“I suppose your friend here,” Hawke nodded at me as he addressed Alistair, “wants the details of my life in Kirkwall?”

“Nah,” I countered immediately. “I just wanted to know if you were half as fucking nuts as Solona.”

“You think Solona’s crazy?” Hawke asked, his head whipping around to face me. “Anders never described her as crazy.”

“Anders is too nice by half,” Alistair laughed. I noted he stopped short of actually confirming or denying the accusation of insanity.

“I’ve got a story for you,” I offered Hawke. “It’s all rumor and supposition, of course. I would never _dream_ of implicating Solona, or myself, or Opie, or sirrah Alistair here in any, shall we say, dubious activities.”

The left side of Hawke’s mouth slowly slid up into a wicked sort of smirk. He cocked one eyebrow at me and the tipped his chin up in invitation. “Dubious activities? I, for one, have _never_ allowed myself to stray onto the wrong side of the law. I wouldn’t dream of my illustrious cousin committing any such transgressions. Surely any tale you spin will be pure fantasy.”

“I have made a terrible mistake,” Alistair noted as Hawke and I grinned at each other. “We should probably enjoy it while we can, before somebody comes and puts a stop to this travesty.”

“Warden, I’ve got a handle of Antivan sip-sip that says you’ve got a story about my cousin Solona that will paint her in the exact opposite light of whatever Twitch dreams up.”

“You’re _on_.”

 

*

 

Six hours later, a runner was making laps around the keep. I noticed him first and pointed him out to my companions; Hawke scowled down at him for a few minutes. I watched the Champion’s face clear and then he broke out in a broad grin. “He’s looking for _you_ , Twitch.”

“That wasn’t magic,” Alistair accused. “Did you just read his lips?”

“Of course I did,” Hawke scoffed. “Do you think I didn’t learn mundane ways of doing things living in _Kirkwall_ of all places? There’s a reason ol’ Commander Curly wasn’t completely sure I was a mage.”

“Do you think he’ll realize we’re up here?” I asked, heading off their tangent.

The other men shrugged simultaneously. “If he does, we can always just lock the door.”

I glanced at the door in question. I assumed he meant the door to the Inquisitor’s quarters, and not the open balcony doors between us and it. The chances of a random runner kicking down Adaar’s door were about zero.

The chances of a random runner thinking the three of us would hide in the Boss’ room weren’t much better.

We’d spent the better part of the afternoon dissecting Solona’s character before deciding the best descriptor for her was “volatile” rather than “batshit fucking insane” as I had previously suggested. Hawke came down pretty firmly on the side of “yup, totally my family” and was looking forward to finally meeting his second cousin.

Oddly enough, the conversation had drifted to Ophelia. Alistair had only a vague notion of her existence before having met her in Arl Eamon’s estate when she and I had spied on Arl Vaughan; Solona was reticent to speak much of Opie as a person, preferring to speak of herself and her own memories with others being peripheral; it was her way of protecting her friends. Given how she was my connection to Solona – and this to Alistair and Hawke – I found their curiosity reasonable, if uncomfortable.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t have been able to pick her out of a crowd if she hadn’t introduced herself. I hadn’t even seen her before you brought her to Arl Eamon’s.”

“She probably would have preferred to keep it that way,” I laughed. “When we were perched on the Arl’s roof, she told me that she and Solona had gravitated to different extremes when they left the Circle. Solona wore her magic like a feast day streamer, while Opie went into hiding.”

“Opie’s not her real name, either, I take it?” Hawke inquired. “It’s an assumed identity, like Anders’?”

Alistair and I both nodded. “She took her cousin’s surname, though, so it wasn’t too much of a stretch.”

“Actually, it was Anders who told her to change her name,” Alistair asserted. That led to him telling us how Opie had escaped the Circle in Solona’s Wake. Anders’ involvement in it was flatly astounding to me, but the way my companions were talking about the former Warden said there was a lot about Anders I probably had wrong.

Every time I tried to drag the conversation around to Anders, though, they dragged it right back to Opie.

“Maker’s breath, I haven’t seen her since before the Conclave went up,” I told them, exasperated, when Hawke had launched into a new line of questioning after her whereabouts. “She’s gone, alright? She left me.”

Something about those three words killed the conversation. They both met the pronouncement with silence and I hurried to put the slow swirl of regret out of my mind.

I would find her. Eventually, I would find her, and we could worry about it then.

The conversation drifted, then. Hawke had been largely silent while Alistair and I talked about Opie and Solona, so he pitched in stories I’d never heard, mostly from the stretches of time between the episodes I remembered from the game. Oddly, he didn’t figure in nearly any of the stories he told.

There was the one where Varric tried to buy out a recently-extinct Carta clan’s shipping fleet only to have the flagship tied to the docks with fifteen thousand sovereigns’ worth of imported Orlesian lingerie. Once they finally settled the damages for the underwear, all the ships but one had taken on too much water to be salvaged; someone had taken the opportunity to remove entire planks from the hulls while the fluttering lace unmentionables drew everyone’s attention. Varric had given the ship to Isabela, and no one had called it anything but _The Panty Raider_ ever since.

There was another where they lost Merrill in the woods between Kirkwall and Sundermount, and Fenris found her carefully tending a handful of lost halla deep in a grove. With the loss of her clan, she was loathe to leave the beasts of burden behind. Isabela ended up finding a clan of Dalish travelling nearby and helped Merrill send the halla into their keeping. Merrill had learned, then, that the story of how she had brought about the death of her clan with blood magic had traveled amongst the Dalish. It would take an act of god to bring her back into the good graces of the People.

I expected Hawke to tell something about Anders, but while he spoke of the apostate with no ill will, he also avoided doing anything more than merely mentioning him. I knew Anders existed, but that was all the more I seemed to get out of Hawke.

But everyone else? Bethany and Carver and his mother Leandra, Gamlen and Charade, Varric and Fenris, Sebastian and Aveline... every last one of them was given their due. To hear him tell their stories, he had merely been an amused observer, a tie-breaker and a little extra firepower. To hear him tell it, his only contribution to the events in Kirkwall was bringing these extraordinary people together.

By the time we watched the sun come up over the Frostbacks, I could understand the allure of following him into the abyss. Maker knew I would; all the man had to do was crook a finger and I would fall into step behind him to any end. I might not come back alive, but _Void Take Me_ I would be remembered _gloriously_.

“What time do you have to be at training?” Alistair asked, as he blinked accusingly at the searing ball of pain that peeked at us over the lip of the mountains.

“By the time the shadow clears from the eastern tower,” I answered with a sigh of resignation. “Which means I have just enough time if I run.”

“Hop to, Twitch,” Hawke laughed. I jumped immediately to my feet, and felt not one moment of shame for leaping at his command. “We’ll do this again, yes? As sleepless nights go, this is far preferable to remembering a nightmare.”

“I look forward to it,” I told him, hoping the anticipation I felt at the prospect didn’t leech too thickly into my voice. I didn’t wait for another response – this was already too good to be true, honestly – and made my way to the door.

“You found a good one, there,” Hawke said conversationally to Alistair. I glanced back to see the two of them slowing standing. They’d abandoned the hiding place in my wake; keeping the secret safe to be used again another day was the better plan than being found out by the staff who would inevitably come up to clean the room in Adaar’s absence.

“I did, didn’t I?” Alistair replied. I tried not to swell with pride. I failed miserably, but it should be said I tried. “You’ll have to tell Solona that when I finally get to introduce you. She’s never really forgiven me for handing off that sword.”

“I will!” Hawke laughed. I shouldered the door open and made my way down the stairs. Right before the latch clicked shut behind me, I heard the Champion say, “If she thinks that one isn’t worth one sword she’s as fucking insane as Twitch thinks.”

It made the whole miserable day that followed, worth it. The news of Gwen crying in Madame de Fer’s loft, Cullen’s sour mood keeping all the soldiery jumpy, and my showing up to training dead last and getting paired against Krem _and_ Grim for the morning spar; all of it was lacquered over with the sheen of pride from managing to make a good impression on Hawke.


	36. Dishonor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Chargers bring down Adamant Keep. Upon their return to Skyhold, something is... amiss... with their Ma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISHONOR ON YOUR _COW_

Hellen Adaar was only back in Skyhold for the span of a few hours before our marching orders came. We packed up and headed out to Adamant that very afternoon.

The fortress was a mess. You could see where the scaling ladders had pierced the tops of the wall, where they had burned, where they had held true. The dry stones had sucked up the blood of Inquisition and Warden alike and threatened to hold the stains for eternity.

They might have, too, except the Chargers showed up.

It was probably the easiest job of our lives. Commander Cullen had sent a force to hold nearby Griffon Wing Keep and they’d galloped over to watch Rocky and his sappers work their special kind of magic. While the rest of us ran around and did what the sappers told us to, Captain Rylen and his men apparently had some little scrap with demons while we weren’t paying attention.

When we finished, we took the time to do one last sweep through the fortress and pick up everything that looked like something the Nightingale or Ambassador Josephine might want to see. We rode out of Adamant, set up a picnic on a nearby hill, and watched as Rocky and his sappers lit the fuse that methodically blew up Adamant, dropping the massive structure in on itself.

I’d seen videos of high-rises imploded back on Earth. To see a pack of grimy, largely indistinguishable dwarves accomplish it with an afternoon and some homemade, vaguely magical explosives was impressive, to say the least.

We broached a cask of ale, Krem sent a raven back to Skyhold with the good news, and then we rode around the Western Approach for a couple of days. We killed some vargests and drank most of our beer and managed to ransack a dozen Grey Warden caches we’d found mention of in our looting of Adamant.

Captain Rylen was sending armed guards with cartloads of equipment and raw materials back to Skyhold, and we took the opportunity to travel in a larger group.

It was more like a vacation that anything else, really.

For those weeks we were on the road, there was no mail; everything was routed to Skyhold and kept for our return except mission-critical information. There was no Gwen to hide from, no guilt to confront, no Alistair running around to remind Siren to heckle me about my time in Denerim.

We arrived back in Skyhold having seen no armed combatants.

We were to be in the fortress only a day – just long enough to resupply and get new marching orders. It was the absolute best possible day to be in Skyhold, as it turns out.

It started when the news passed that we’d rode into Skyhold on the heels of Commander Cullen and the Inquisitor, who had left to bring home Warden Blackwall from Val Royeaux, where he was apparently being imprisoned for confessing to murders committed under the alias Thom Ranier. Except Thom Ranier wasn’t the alias, _Blackwall_ was the alias. Apparently, the real Blackwall had died and this Ranier guy had replaced him, which was why our supposed Warden hadn’t gone nutso like the rest of ‘em in Orlais.

As we were piecing this together at the gate, Meck elbowed Daft who elbowed Squirrel who elbowed me. “Ma’s on the bailey. She’s looking better, what?”

I passed the elbow on to Siren who elbowed Wilder who elbowed One who elbowed Two and then I lost track of the nudge.

“A lot better, yeah,” somebody – Skinner, I thought – agreed. Stitches tilted his chin towards the main hall, and a handful of us nodded and followed him to the stairs. Word was we were leaving in the morning; we could afford to swarm Gwen as she returned from Cullen’s office and drag her off to the tavern for a chat. Rocky took his sappers to the south side of Cullen’s office in case she exited out that way. If she left from the north or east, the pack of us behind Stitches would intercept her.

We’d gotten to the top of the stairs when I became aware of shouting. A quick glance showed the rest of my team heard it, too. Stitches’ one eyebrow quirked up as he announced, “That’s Gwen. I’m sure of it.”

“Shouting in Cullen’s office?” One countered. “That doesn’t sound much like Gwen.”

“...you’re welcome to pull your head out of your ass and _try_ to fucking find me!” The voice was unmistakably Gwen’s. Any confirmation we might have needed came when she burst out of Cullen’s office onto the bailey wall. She slammed the door behind her shut as Cullen’s voice barked, “Wait!”

I watched as she jerked her shoulder, and had to duck my head to keep from laughing aloud when I realized she’d pulled the handle off the door. _Just like I’d done when Sera had locked me out._ She flung the bit of brass carelessly to the side, and we all inhaled a worried breath as we watched it hurdle towards the ground. The handle buried itself so deeply into the soil it was immediately invisible, but the important thing was there were no casualties. I breathed a sigh of relief while we, as one, watched her storm across the wall back into the main hall.

“Let’s move!” Krem barked. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized he was with us. “Come on, go, go, go, let’s grab her before she breaks anybody! Move it, move, move, move!”

The six of us – Krem, Stitches, myself, Siren, One, and Two – raced up the stairs into the main hall, arriving just a moment after Gwen did.

“Bianca Davri,” she called, enunciating the words carefully. The name almost sounded like a threat.

Varric heard it too, and as Gwen paced out of the side entrance to the hall, her eyes locked on the slowly-turning dwarf who had been standing with him, Varric raised both hands, reaching out as if to block or warn. He was taken by surprise – who could have expected Gwen to go on the offensive? – and didn’t manage to make any sort of saving move before Gwen reached the other dwarf.

She planted her feet – right leg slightly behind, toe turned out – pivoted to her right, and swung a right cross that knocked her target ass over teakettle. The dwarf’s hood tipped back to reveal a rather pretty blonde female, whose eyes had rolled back in her head before fluttering shut.

I froze in the doorway in shock. Krem pushed past me, Stitches a step behind.

Varric whipped his crossbow up, thumbed off the safety, and leveled the loaded weapon at Gwen’s torso.

Gwen threw her arms to the side, fingers splayed and palms slightly up; her jaw jutted and she jerked her chin. _Come at me_.

“Oh, shit,” One muttered, and all of us sprung into action.

Stupid son of a bitch was going to get herself shot _by Varric_. If there was a more pathetic way to fail at keeping her alive, I couldn’t think of it.

A barrier suddenly lit up on Gwen’s skin. She cast a fond smile above the doors – Madame de Fer, it seemed – and Varric grunted, shrugged, tightened his finger on the trigger-

A man had been moving laterally to us – from the northern doors out of the main hall, across from the spectacle unfolding – and reached Gwen five strides before Krem. He ducked, thrust his shoulder into her abdomen, and stood, swinging her over his shoulder.

“Put me down, asshole,” she hissed, struggling.

Varric, to my relief, let his crossbow sink towards the floor. I turned my attention back to the interloper, and as his profile came into my field of vision I realized it was Blackwall. Or, rather, the man recently known as Blackwall.

“No,” the false Warden replied.

Their voices dropped as Gwen argued with him – faded into the distance as he carried her resolutely away – and then the blonde dwarf – Bianca? like the crossbow? – groaned and pushed up from the floor. It pulled our attention from Gwen; Varric dropped his weapon and turned to help her onto her feet.

It also pulled Gwen’s attention away from Blackwall. “Dishonor on you!” she screamed in English, kicking Blackwall as she fought to brace herself enough to free her hands. “Dishonor on your family!” She brought her hands up to cup her face, and her voice dropped into a register I didn’t know she was capable of reaching. “Dishonor on your _cow!”_

“What the bloody fuck was that?” Siren asked over her shoulder, knowing Krem and I could translate it.

“I... I’m not sure,” Krem admitted. “I don’t think I heard her right.”

“What’s funny, Twitch?” One pressed. “What did she say?”

It hurt. Maker save me, it _burned_. But all I wanted to do was laugh and there would be no coming back from that.

“Dishonor on her, whoever she is,” I confessed as the six of us left the hall. “Dishonor on her family, and dishonor on her cow.”

“That’s what I thought I heard,” Krem agreed.

“Bitch has lost her fucking mind,” I told One, who merely chuckled in response. “Yeah, see? What else can you do but laugh?”

“We should find out what happened to Ma while we were gone,” Stitches proposed to Krem.

Our Lieutenant nodded. “We’ve got a little time. Let’s get to digging.”

 

*

 

The stories we heard in the tavern were incredible.

The judgment in the main hall, and the sounds of a newborn crying over a man’s broken voice. The strange blue bag full of unbelievable items. The thick card of metal and glass that created sound and fantastical images.

The rumors from the Undercroft of the Arcanist reforging Gwen’s wedding band into the sort of relic that comes around once in a lifetime. A soldier who had been on duty in the main hall that night insisted the new pendant would make Gwen invincible, protected by the Maker and the spirit of her dead husband both.

The night eerie music drifted out of the Inquisitor’s quarters, with Gwen and Adaar’s voices lifted into song.

Gwen having a breakdown in the chapel, and being carted off in despair by the Inquisitor.

Gwen picking a fight with the Commander, punching out a contact of Varric Tethras, and then wandering the courtyard drunk with Thom Ranier. That last bit happened while we were sitting in the tavern gathering information, but before we’d reconvened in our bunkhouse to go over what we’d learned.

Then there was the pile of bodies being discovered at the base of the walls, with Gwen as the probable target of multiple assassination attempts. _That_ did not go over well. Krem, himself, charged off to the Commander’s office for verification of _that_ nasty little rumor. He came back with an orders rotation for whenever the Chargers were in Skyhold to keep a detail on Gwen. We’d start when we got back from the next mission.

That night, we gathered around and decided, almost unanimously, that she’d snapped. The pressure was too much, the memory of losing her world was just _too much_ , and she’d lost what she had left of her mind.

“Happens to those who see the future, in all the tales,” Dalish advised. “Not even Asha’Bellanar can see the future clearly, and she’s rumored to be mad.”

I stayed out of that conversation.

All I could think about was the blue bag.

Her _cell phone_.

I’d tucked mine into a wall in Denerim without a stray thought, thinking it worthless because there was no signal, no way to call or text.

Idiot.

I had the entire Tool discography on that fucking thing. Pictures of Cindy, of my parents, of _home_.

I couldn’t have kept it charged, but I could have kept it on me, right? Granted, it would have been found that first day in the Chantry by Sister Charla. I was right to hide it and enter her care as a pauper. But before I wiped my memory, when I was planning to leave Denerim? I knew right where it was. There was no reason why I couldn’t stop and scoop up the remnants of my past life and take it with me.

There was no reason why I couldn’t have remembered who I was.

No reasons outside cowardice, at least.

I’d taken the path of least resistance; while it had led me to my destination it had also filled me with regret.

Had I ever looked backwards, once in my entire damn life? Had I ever really sat down and considered the implications of my decisions for more than the amount of time it took to choose the next path forward? How many burned bridges had I left smoldering behind me?

I needed to sit down and figure this shit out before I blundered forward any further. I needed to get my motives straight before I did anything else that would keep me up at night. I needed to take a good long hard look at the man I’d become and decide whether or not I wanted to keep him.

And then Krem tapped me on the shoulder, told me to get to bed since tomorrow was another long day, and that I needed my rest.

That’s all it took. The soul searching, the deep introspection, the examination of causation and guilt; all of it, tabled as soon as I had the excuse of my Lieutenant sending me to sleep.

It is entirely possible that my last conscious thought was of deep, soul-shaking shame.

If it was, I did not remember it in the morning.


	37. Demands of the Qun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chargers make a fateful trip to the Storm Coast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this yesterday, but I started off my morning at a funeral for a client.  
> You know those awful movie funerals? Standing around an open grave in the rain?  
> Those actually do happen. Except it had snowed all morning and just switched over to rain as the service started, so there was 3-4" of snow on the ground that slowly turned to slush and it was _cold_.  
>  So, yeah. I went home and baked Christmas cookies with my mom all day.  
> Today is better. Also, I have yet to receive a single shitty comment when I'm late on an update, even though y'all know my tumblr and twitter handles. So thanks for being more forgiving than any other audience on the internet. Love you guys.

“Tell me again why we’re going to the Storm Coast?”

Not for the first time, Krem shrugged. “Boss says there’s some talk of an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qun. They want the Chief to meet some other Ben’Hassrath up on the Coast. Said to bring the Chargers. Boss says march, we march.”

“Why does the Qun need us around to make an alliance with the Inquisition?” Siren asked.

It was a valid fucking point.

Again, Krem shrugged. “The Boss says march, we march. I don’t know why this is confusing you all so badly.”

“We’re not _confused_ ,” Skinner countered. “We are all well aware that this is completely fucked.”

“We’re just trying to figure out the dimensions of the trap before we jam our dicks in it,” Daft added.

“You have the worst possible method for springing traps,” Dalish informed him.

“He _is_ Daft,” Rocky reminded her.

“You’re damn right I am.”

“For fuck’s sake, man, don’t live down to your name,” Meck chided.

“He’ll be living down to a lot of things if he’s sticking his dick in traps,” Squirrel called from a nearby tree.

We laughed as a group for a few minutes and then it started right back up again.

“Seriously, Krem, what the fuck are we supposed to do out here?”

“Kill Venatori,” the Chief bellowed suddenly, from far to the rear of the column. He’d kept so quiet – so withdrawn – we’d forgotten he was with us. We’d made the trip to the Western Approach without him, and gotten used to a more autonomous existence as he traveled with Adaar.

“Always up for killing Vints,” Two approved.

“Easy,” Krem warned.

“You’re not a Vint, you’re Krem.” The sentence was spoken by no less than six voices, as we all immediately quoted the Chief.

Our Lieutenant cracked a smile and waved a dismissive hand. “You know what I mean.”

The Iron Bull’s contribution did serve to calm our collective curiosity, but nobody was really comfortable with a job with so few details to work with. We’d been killing Venatori for months; why would killing a few more create an alliance with the Qun?

The road between Skyhold and the Inquisition outpost at Daerwin’s Mouth was so well travelled by Adaar’s forces that it was one of the safest roads in Thedas. Merchants only used the part that connected Skyhold to the old Imperial Highway; everything north of that was simply abandoned. There was no one for a bandit to rob, no rifts left to close, and nothing causing the wildlife to become desperate enough to attack travelers. We made it to the Coast in likely record time, and climbed directly into the hills to set up camp and wait for Bull’s contact.

I was surprised to find a Viddathari – an elf at that – named Gatt as the contact we sought. Adaar showed up two days after we did; Dorian, Varric, and Bull stood with her when she met the Ben’Hassrath. We were summarily dismissed from the little watch outpost we’d established at the top of a hill, and I trotted down towards our fortification in Krem’s wake.

Or, rather, I tried to. I made it ten or fifteen paces away from where the Chief and the Boss were exchanging pleasantries and opening conversation with Gatt when I was suddenly grabbed from behind and swung into a tree.

“Maker’s farts you’re heavier than I thought,” Squirrel panted. She and Daft were both red faced and short of breath but seemed exceedingly pleased with themselves as they settled me between them on a heavy tree branch.

“The fuck?”

“We’re spying on the Ben-Hassrath,” Squirrel answered immediately. “None of this makes sense, and the Chief isn’t acting right.”

“Okay?”

“What if they speak in Qunlat?” Daft asked, a bit rhetorically.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. So you’re coming with us, come on.”

“But what if I don’t-“

“You do. Don’t give us any of that shit,” Squirrel asserted, one finger jabbed towards my face. “You want to know what the fuck is going on just as badly as anybody else and we’re going to go figure it out.”

I hadn’t spent much time travelling via tree branch, but we didn’t have to get very close to hear what was being said. The shape of the ravine drew their voices up; I’m sure that was the intention for choosing the spot, as it greatly limited the availability of good eavesdropping locations. We were just barely within range to hear, but that also meant we were pretty well undiscoverable. The heavy boughs hid the speakers from us, and we settled in to spy.

“You know this is bullshit,” Adaar was saying – in Qunlat, causing Daft to lift a fist to celebrate their foresight in dragging me into this. “If you can get a Dreadnaught down here, you can get bodies on shore. There is no reason to involve the Inquisition in this.”

“While we contend that it is far easier for the Inquisition to operate on the shores of Ferelden, I am not here to argue with you. This is an offer of alliance,” Gatt countered smoothly. “Whether or not Qunari soldiers could be put into position, _you_ defending the shoreline is what makes it an _alliance_.”

“And besides expending Inquisition resources, and drawing me away from the civil fucking war in Orlais, what does the Inquisition net from this _alliance_?” Adaar countered.

“Ooh, she fucking hates this,” I breathed into Squirrel’s ear. She was sitting with her face practically pressed against my mouth so that I could translate in real time. She was rendering my words into what had to be a version of Sign Language for Daft. I couldn’t follow it, but it seemed to be a massive extrapolation on Grim’s hand signals.

“The entirety of the Ben’Hassrath information network at your disposal,” Gatt replied immediately. “And I do not think even you could believe that friendship with the Qun isn’t preferable to enmity. But aside from who has what to gain, is not the elimination of a source of red lyrium not a noble goal?”

“First, you don’t know a bloody thing about red lyrium,” the Inquisitor countered. “Second, I eliminated the source of red lyrium in this region _yesterday_. Dreadnaught or not, the pipe here is closed. And _third_ , I don’t believe for one hot minute that the Qun will ever have anything to offer me but enmity.”

“Boss,” the Chief said softly. “We talked about this.”

Adaar was silent for a minute – I wished we could see her, because I was sure she was _fuming_ – and then sounded resigned, if still pissed. “As The Iron Bull is Qunari and desires this alliance, I will respect _him_ and _his wishes_. I am not leaving this area without killing these Venatori regardless, so if you would like your Dreadnaught to benefit from their slaughter I will not protest.”

I really expected Gatt to say something snarky under his breath, but he seemed to be a consummate diplomat.

“Very well. I have the layout of the-“

“Bull, your scouts are encamped already?”

“You bet, Boss.”

“I want your head scout present for any discussion of tactics and lay of the land.”

“Skinner!” the Chief bellowed.

We stayed put, even though Skinner would now have a legitimate source of information that the rest of the Chargers could sift through. The risk of discovery was too great to try to leave while the Inquisitor was standing with Gatt; she would be exceptionally keyed-up and we’d all seen her level trees when she was jumpy.

We sat, three birds on a wire, and calmly listened to Skinner describe the local terrain and the best places to set up. It was impossible not to note that the hill tops Gatt had already set signal fires – and sent word to the Dreadnaught for where to look for the beacons – were not the same locations Skinner recommended. A feeling of dread settled into my gut. A glance at Daft and Squirrel showed the same discontent on their faces.

There was remarkably little argument in their discussion of tactics; more pointed silences and guarded voices than anything else. That neither the Chief nor the Boss were resisting what was becoming obvious to us as a trap made a persistent shudder travel down my spine.

Eventually, Skinner was sent away and Gatt left to make his own preparations. We were set to spring the trap on the Venatori just before dusk, so we had daylight left to fight and twilight to make the beacons visible offshore.

“You know what this is,” Adaar said, just when I was beginning to think the coast was clear. She was speaking in Qunlat again, but they were much closer to our tree.

Bull merely grunted in response.

“Look. I know we’ve never agreed on the tenets of the Qun and I know we’re never going to see eye-to-eye on this and that’s _fine_. We don’t have to agree. But you’re one of the smartest mother fuckers I know, and there’s no way you can’t see this trap. This a test of loyalty, Bull, nothing more and nothing less. They think you’ve abandoned the Qun and they’re forcing your hand. This is _not_ an alliance offer. And even if it was, we don’t fucking need it. They’re going to fight the Venatori with or without allying with us. We don’t need to try to seal off this beachhead, I’ve closed the Deep Roads entrance that was allowing red lyrium to come into the area.”

“I know, Boss.”

“Okay. What’s the plan?”

“We can still get out of this with a win,” Bull countered, though he didn’t sound particularly convincing. “We hit the Venatori hard and fast. Take out their leadership. If we get lucky and get everybody with a head for tactics, they might not see the flanking opportunity here. We will still have high ground, even if it’s not-“

“So you’re saying we press forward with this and hope it turns out perfect? Bull, since when do we have any fucking luck?”

“I don’t know, Boss, your escape from Haven was pretty damn lucky.”

“That was skill and divine intervention.”

“And why couldn’t we get that here?”

“Fine,” she sighed. “We’ll stick our faces in this trap, if only to kill off some Venatori. But the second this goes south – I mean _the very second_ – you call your men back.”

“I hear you.”

They travelled down the ravine to our encampment then. The Inquisitor was staying in the fortifications we’d built in the day and a half we were here before her; Dorian and Varric were likely already there. Squirrel slipped off silently to make sure the coast was clear; Daft responded to some signal I missed and gestured for me to follow him out of the tree. I stayed close to his heels and did my best to sneak through the woods as softly as he did. My armor was heavier and more metallic than his, and I knew I fell well short of my goal, but when we slipped into camp from the opposite direction Adaar and Bull entered it was without notice. Bull was sitting by the fire, his back to us, conversing softly with Krem. Squirrel made her own entrance just a moment after us, sliding into camp in Adaar’s wake.

“You hear anything good?” Bull asked the scout without glancing up.

“I only know like ten words of Qunlat and they’re all curses,” Squirrel answered, shrugging. They’d played this game many, many times. Bull would only be suspicious if she’d tried to claim she wasn’t watching. “You could have been telling Adaar the recipe for gaatlock for all I could tell.”

Bull chuckled and gestured to the fire. “Might as well bring everybody in. We’re not going into this blind.”

Word passed around the camp quickly, and within minutes we were all gathered around the fire. Daft and I stood to Bull’s right; we were in his line of sight but not directly across from him. If he couldn’t see me at all he would have been instantly suspicious, but I knew he knew all my tells.

“Here’s how this is going down,” the Chief said when we had all gathered and stilled to listen. “We’ve got two points to hold. I’ll be with Adaar, Gatt, Pavus, and Tethras; we’ll hold the southern point. Skinner will lead the way around to the northern point; you’ll have to swing wide, and we’ll want scouts along the road in both directions to make sure you aren’t seen when you cross. We’ll be able to see each other from the two points; once you’re in position we’ll light the beacon fires Gatt has laid. That will actually start the party. The Venatori will know we’ve found them and the Dreadnaught will come in to capture the smugglers when they try to sail out.”

“Simple enough,” Krem commented. Skinner shot him a look of pure vitriol.

Bull’s glance at his Lieutenant wasn’t much better. “Right. Special assignments. Dalish, I want you at the front, with Twitch. Stitches, on his left. He’s got the experience to keep you safe and stay out of your way. I want you two to stay out of the worst of the fighting; your task is to lay down cover and control the pace of the battle. Twitch, keep her and Stitches alive at all costs.”

For the first time, Dalish didn’t argue that she wasn’t a mage. She merely met my eyes and returned my nod.

The Chief was making a pretty blatant reference to my time with Opie. It brought to mind my race to Adamant and made the dread seep deeper into my gut.

“Krem, Grim; each of you take half the rest. Know your topography. Plan for the worst. You hear me?”

“We hear you, Chief,” Krem spoke for them both. Grim merely nodded.

“You’re Chargers,” the Chief concluded. “You’re the best. We’re going to have to prove it today.”

We couldn’t risk waiting any longer and letting the Venatori discover our encampment. Now that the Inquisitor was present, it would be harder to play our presence off as a stray mercenary band if we were stumbled upon by their scouts. We banked our fires and secured our belongings; if somebody raided the camp while we were away they’d have a hard time surviving the series of traps Skinner and Daft set. Given they were Rocky’s design, some of our gear was likely forfeit as well. I was glad I’d left my collection of letters back in Skyhold.

We were marching out of camp when I caught Grim’s eye. He followed my lead and approached Krem.

“Which one of you two should I stick by with Dalish and Stitches?”

“Grim,” Krem answered immediately. “Siren’s with me, she’ll take over if something happens. You’ll be Grim’s second today.”

Grim and I both nodded. “Make a plan to withdraw,” I breathed, just barely loud enough for them to hear. Grim guardedly made the sign for _escape_ as he met Krem’s eye.

Krem nodded slightly. “Chief did say plan for the worst,” he agreed.

“See you on the other side,” I told my Lieutenant, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Maker guide your steps,” he replied.

I followed Grim as he tacitly gathered up his half of the Chargers. We were moving through the trees now, ghosting along in Skinner’s wake. We crossed the Venatori supply line without incident and split in half. Dalish and Stitches appeared, hard on my heels, and we stuck close to Grim. I watched as one by one he waved off the scouts and then the sappers, sending them off to establish a route for withdrawal. Running wasn’t something the Chargers did often, but when we did, we did it _right_.

We were able to reach the target without any open skirmishes; what Venatori we encountered were dispatched silently, run through and throats slit and hidden quietly in the thick brush. It started to rain, again, and the water colliding with the leaves of the canopy and cascading gently to the ground muffled the sounds of our approach.

I had Dalish on my right and Stitches on my left; the healer had sword drawn and was keeping his head on a swivel. Krem stood at the unlit beacon, and waved his arm in a wide arc over his head. I couldn’t see the Chief from where I was standing with Dalish and Stitches, but I assumed that was who Krem was gesturing to. A moment later, my Lieutenant knelt, struck up a cascade of sparks, and lit the beacon fire. The sun was behind the mountains but there was still some daylight left; the beacon burned brightly in the shadows and an answering glow was discernible from the direction of the Inquisitor’s position.

It took minutes, only, for the sounds of battle to start.

Venatori were charging up the hill to our position; we had the high ground but the hilltop was exposed; the spellbinders had a clear shot at all of us.

...until, of course, Dalish used the beacon fire to create a wall of smoke. It effectively blocked us from the view of anyone on the beachhead, while still keeping the beacon visible to the sea. A glow out over the water was the only indication the Qunari Dreadnaught was out there, but it was enough.

Without the spellbinders firing up from below, the Venatori were channeled up the path to the top of the hill, which forced them through lines of archers and sappers. What few who broke through to approach the beacon were easy prey for Grim and Krem, on opposite sides of the hilltop.

We fought for a solid fifteen or twenty minutes, when everything suddenly went silent.

Dalish let the smoke cloud dissipate, a thin veneer of sweat across her brow the only indication of how taxing the seemingly simple act had been. “Fucking Vints,” she panted. “They’re pushing the air itself, forcing me to hold the smoke together in a breeze. That on top of the rain...? I need a minute.”

“Take a minute,” Krem told her, barely glancing over his shoulder. “And don’t hold on to that lyrium the altus gave you. If you could benefit from it, take it. Now would be a good time.”

“That bad?” I asked him as Dalish nodded and thumbed the glowing blue vial from its home on her belt.

“They’re not willing to just go past us to the beachhead,” Krem said from the edge of the hilltop, where it dropped sharply down to the shore. “They know we’d crush them against the water, with the dreadnaught coming up behind. They have to take one of these points. If we were on that next ridge over... well. That’s a different story. Taking this one, though, gives them line of sight on the Inquisitor’s position as well as the Dreadnaught. They know it, too. The whole fucking lot of them are coming down the road and edging this way.”

“How badly are we outnumbered?”

Krem shot me a troubled look. “They’ve got ten or more spellbinders, and dozens of warriors.”

“Fuck,” Siren breathed as she drew near. “A handful of templars would be nice right about now. Only so much I can do against _ten_ of them.”

“What happens if we’re overwhelmed?” Dalish asked.

“Depends on how fast the Dreadnaught is moving. If they hurry their asses up, they’ll take out the ships and crates down on the water before the Venatori can move into position to strike at them. As it stands, all we could really do is buy them some time; I don’t think they’re going to get up here fast enough.”

“Why?” Siren asked, the gravity of the situation leaving her voice choked and raw. “Why put us on _this_ hill? Why make us hold _this_ position? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s a test,” I murmured to her. I was sure Grim and Krem heard, but my voice wouldn’t carry much further. “Test the Chief’s loyalty. Will he follow an order that gets us killed? Will _we_ follow _his_ order that will get _us_ killed?”

Siren stiffened, and then spun to me in a panic. “But he will, won’t he? He’s still Qunari, he’s not-“

The Chief’s horn blasted through the air, then, singing the pattern of retreat. We froze for one long minute, our faces lifting towards his position across the beach, and then we fled into the trees.

“Dalish!” I called, and she was by my side in a moment. Stitches was right behind her. “Black out the woods as best you can.”

It was easier for her to pull the smoke into the forest than it had been for her on the hill; it left the beacon exposed and our withdrawal obvious, but the swirling eddies between the trees would confuse the Venatori and cut down on our casualties.

“We’re using the Dreadnaught to cover our escape,” Krem called through the trees. The source of the command was lost in the smoke and darkness but his voice was unmistakable. “Horned fucks want a test? We’ll give them a test.”

We angled west as we descended from the hill in full flight, and within moments there were Chargers tumbling out of the woods all along the shore. We turned towards the Chief’s position – helpfully directed by his continued horn blasts that translated roughly to _get your asses over here_ – and raced down the line of the surf.

The Venatori could try to pin us against the water, but with the Dreadnaught approaching behind us and the hilltop suddenly vacant, their better move was to claim the high ground and start firing on the Dreadnaught from cover rather than from the beach.

As we came into the open, charging across the sand, a token force of Venatori swarmed out of the crates and row boats pushed onto the shore. We paused long enough to carve through, but it was enough of a delay for the Vints.

The spellbinders had the hill, and fireballs were soaring over our heads towards the Dreadnaught as we dropped the last smuggler and resumed our race towards the Chief.

The Chief was there, suddenly, standing at the entrance to the ravine and waving for us to run up the hill and make our escape. I stepped to the right, keep myself between Dalish and danger, while she worked to keep the smoke dancing between us and the Venatori on the hill and the spellbinders began firing down on us.

An explosion behind me rocked everyone forward a step, as a fireball detonated on the beach. Sand spewed up and rained down on the Chargers bringing up the rear; it was Rocky and his sappers, though, and they seemed to be immune to blast damage. The sappers were in the ravine, then, and I pushed Dalish into the gap in the rock behind them. Stitches stepped in front of me, and I turned to follow, to be the last one into safety, and caught a glimpse of the Dreadnaught out of the corner of my eye.

It caught my attention and I turned, unconsciously, to get a better look.

I was watching as the fireball landed full on the deck. The ship shuddered and then exploded into a ball of fire, flaming chucks of debris shooting out in all directions-

I instinctively closed my eyes and pulled away, stumbling towards the ravine. Fire seared into my face, my shoulder, my arm, as I was grabbed and pulled into cover. I was being slapped and rolled, tumbled through the dirt and then heaved over a shoulder. I tried to crack open my eyes and I couldn’t; my vision was restricted to a thin line of twilight and the ground racing by beneath me.

“Put him down, quick, we’ve got to get it off him, or else he’ll lose the eye!”

I hit the ground, landing on my back, and then there were hands on my arms and water poured across my face. I coughed and sputtered and tried to pull back, and felt more hands appear to direct the flow away from my nose and mouth.

“Deep breath, Twitchy,” Siren ordered. “Ready? Hold it!”

I gasped in a breath and then felt a deluge of water across my face, filling my nose and swamping my eyes. It was cold – unspeakably cold – searingly cold – and it was all I could do not to breathe.

There were hands on my face, then, pulling at my flesh and scraping my right cheek. It should hurt – I was burned, I knew it should hurt – but instead all I could feel was the cold and the pressure.

“Deep breath, again,” Siren ordered, and I obediently filled my lungs and held it.

Water surged across my face again, and the bits of my skin that I could feel went numb with the cold.

“Maker’s mistress,” the Inquisitor’s voice breathed, somewhere above me. “Here, let me in.”

Ice shot into my face, then, surrounding my eyes and throat. The force holding my eyes closed suddenly relented and my lids sprung open. I blinked the water out of my vision, trying and failing to reach up and wipe my eyes as hands resolutely held down my wrists.

As the world swam into focus, I first saw the Inquisitor’s face, upside-down, smiling grimly as she peered down at me. Her forehead was peppered with sweat and she was breathing hard. “Saved the eyes. And his throat. Pulled the smoke out of his lung. It's all I can... all I can manage, for now. I need to see to the others, still, can’t... can’t worry about scars until I know the rest of ‘em will live. I’m sorry, kid.”

“You’re sorry?” I repeated. “You’re sorry you saved my eyes? Are you nuts?”

She laughed, roughly, still panting heavily, and pushed out of my field of view. Stitches was sitting on my chest, with Siren on my right arm and Meck on my left. Squirrel and Dalish were visible just behind Stitches’ head.

“You got a hunk of gaatlok on your face, Twitch,” the healer told me flatly. “Little bit singed your armor on your shoulder and arm, but it saved your skin from the worst of it. Not much worse than a sun burn. Water we dumped on you kept your eyes from boiling. Inquisitor healed the worst of the damage. You look like a genlock’s grundle, though. Skin’s melted through to tendon on your jaw and the muscles of your cheek and temple are visible. I’ve got a paste we’ll rub across it to keep the wound from turning but you’re likely to have a demon of a scar.”

“Worse than what the demonic squirrel got me?”

I heard a couple chuckles and felt reassured. “Much,” Siren answered happily.

“Good news is, the burn is so deep you’re not likely to feel it,” Stitches concluded.

“Awesome. Lemme up?”

Hands under my arms and around my torso lifted me to my feet as Stitches moved away, and I wobbled briefly.

“Inquisitor?” I called. She’d ordered the withdrawal, she’d healed my face. We’d all be dead now if not for her.

“Yeah?” she answered, from only a few paces to my left.

“Thank you,” I told her.

A wave of dizziness welled up as I tried to turn and face her, and the world went black.


	38. Head Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Twitch is forced to face his demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know Twitch's mental state is annoying the shit out of people.  
> That was intentional.  
> I find it to be ridiculously common for people to dwell on things. They never actually take the steps to fix the problem, they just ruminate on it. For years.  
> I have someone I love dearly who's still bitter AF over a divorce that was finalized in 1996.  
> I know someone else who is still angry about a baseball game their Dad missed... again, in the 90s.  
> So while Twitch is driving many of you batty... I'm just trying to make him a normal guy, with a normal problem.  
> Which is going to start getting better... now.

I was aware of movement before anything else.

Other senses came to life one at a time, systems coming online after a hard restart.

I was bumping across the road, just slightly upright. I felt like I was in a tight sort of hammock, with poles along the side to keep it taut. A strap across my chest was just firm enough to keep me in place, but not bind.

The air was chilly but the sun was warm on my skin; it was coming from a high angle so it was late in the day. My face was cold, and a pressure across my eyes kept my lids closed and vision dark. I assumed it was a compress, as I had sensation in my eyelids.

The air smelled of sweat and horses, with a sharp undercut of metal. Above all of that was a medicinal, earthy sort of odor that I suspected was related to whatever was keeping my eyes shut.

There were people around me, talking. Voices I recognized but could not place, in a language I knew but could not quite wrap my head around. I listened for awhile, and just couldn’t put the words together. Rather than focus on the language, I tried to place the voices.

A woman speaking. I recognized her voice. Her visage appeared in my memory: the day we met, in  a room with two other people, her armor blues and grey, standing with a man all in red and another all in green. Her name was Elayne, but everybody called her-

“Siren,” I croaked, as the world came rushing back to me.

“About bloody time you woke up,” she scoffed, but I could hear the relief in her tone. “One and Two said you should be allowed to rest before we left, but Krem said you wanted them to move well before they were ready so we gave you a taste of your own medicine, stuck you on a litter, and now you’re getting dragged to Orlais.”

“Why...” my lips were cracked and dry, and the effort of talking split them further. “Why are we going to Orlais?”

“Get him some water, you mangy tart,” Squirrel chided from somewhere nearby. I was having a hard time placing what side they stood on, and after a moment I realized my right ear was covered by the same pressure on my eyes. I didn't have stereo sound anymore - everything was being channeled from the left.

A cup was pressed to my mouth and for a few blessed minutes they gave me sips of water. I turned my head when I’d had my fill and they took it away. I could hear others speaking in the column as we marched.

“There’s a Pride demon on the bank of the Enavuris river,” Siren explained. “Adaar’s next stop is the civil war there, so we’ve been dispatched to get eyes on the demon, figure out where it came from, and dispatch it if necessary. Scout Harding says it’s not connected to any rifts, and the original thought was it was a trap for the Inquisitor. You know... Inquisitor is out closing the rifts, she figures out where the rifts are from reports of demons, she goes to the river bank because there’s a demon, no rift to interfere with the ambush-“

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, fighting to raise a hand to wave her off. “What are you gonna do, feed me to it? Hope it gets indigestion and dies?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a walk so we figured you’d be feeling better by the time we arrive.”

“What happened? I thought Adaar healed me?”

“She did,” a new voice chimed in. Male. “Ran her clear out of juice to do it. Saved your life, your eye, and the functional bits of your ear.” The more he spoke the easier he was to place. Man-at-arms we picked up after the Giant baiting job. Wilder. “Said your collapse was probably shock and exhaustion, and Stitches got your face wrapped to keep it clean. Then the Inquisitor got called back to Skyhold, some kind of emergency, and couldn’t stay to keep healing you. She was in a rush and we didn’t feel right asking the bloody Inquisitor to stick around just to make sure your face stayed pretty.”

“Ah, Wilder, you think I’m pretty?”

“Not any more. I’ve seen pickled boar with better skin than you.”

“I’ve seen pickled boar with skin better than any of us,” Siren whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t let it get you down, Twitch.”

“I can’t look worse than the Chief.”

“You’d be surprised,” the Iron Bull rumbled. He sounded far more depressed than I had ever heard him; I wasn’t sure if it was the cover on my right ear or if he was really that morose.

“Damn. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Ma will have some miracle remedy for me, too.”

“Get your rest, kid,” the Chief said in lieu of a response. “Hopefully tomorrow you’re back on your feet.”

I wasn’t.

Granted, it was only the day after that before I was steady enough on my feet to keep up with the Charger’s marching speed. But the remainder of that day and entirety of the second was spent sightless, half-deaf, and utterly trapped inside my own mind.

I hated it in there.

My voice was shot, my lips cracked, my throat healed but dry. I would have killed for some ice chips, but occasional lukewarm water between rehydrated rations seemed to be the best I could get. Talking for any length of time wasn’t a possibility, and even if someone wanted to walk alongside my litter and talk my remaining ear off, with limited ability to respond they continually assumed I was asleep and wandered off.

My thoughts went first to Ophelia.

Was she dead?

I’d been trying to resist thinking about it, but as time went on that seemed the most likely reason Sera would be holding back that letter: Opie was going someplace horribly dangerous and didn’t expect to survive. There were a dozen options for where that danger could be found – this was _Thedas_ for fucks sake – and I couldn’t bring myself to play the what-if game. Sera could be doing me a solid by keeping me from hearing about a potential suicide mission, especially if it was far too late to follow her.

I didn’t have to think about whether or not I would have followed her.

I had to put Opie out of mind. There was too much uncertainty there – I was just going to run myself in circles and get sick. Every thought of her was nothing more than what-if or memory, and my attention was best served elsewhere.

The better question – the one I had all the information needed to ferret out the answer – was what the fuck was wrong with me.

All I had done since I had landed in Denerim was fabricate, falsify, and hide. If I couldn’t avoid the truth, I lied. If I couldn’t lie, I ran. And after ten years of running, all those stories and false leads had fallen back on me like a ton of bricks.

The first steps seemed obvious. The conversation with Andraste indicating everything here wasn’t safe for an English speaker, leading to my decision to hide until I learned the language and a skill and could blend in... even if I managed to convince myself it was the wrong action, were I to go back and do it all again, I would have done the _exact same thing._

The first thing I could think to do differently was to respond to Qunlat in the Chantry. I knew now that Charla would have helped me, but at the time? At the time I had no idea.

I could have said something to Sten. I knew now that Solona wouldn’t have recruited me into the Grey Wardens – she didn’t even want _Ophelia_ – and the Qun already knew about people from my world; it wouldn't have mattered if I'd outed myself. Again, hindsight was twenty-twenty.

Everything was like that. Using the willpower trick to forget the earth. Not saying anything to Gwen. Every individual step was stupid in hindsight but the absolute safest bet at the time. And, at the time, my entire purpose was surviving; the safest bet was the one I had to take.

So why was I so miserable about the way things had turned out?

If I was honest with myself, it was because everything was hard. Every choice was hard. Every consequence was hard. Every outcome had been painful; even the victories left scars.

Wasn’t that life?

Was I really just butthurt because I wasn’t coming out of this smelling like roses?

That wasn’t a very flattering thing to think about myself, and I started to shrug it off in favor of a different line of thought.

And stopped.

Was that the problem?

Was I avoiding thinking of anything that painted me in a bad light?

Was I avoiding any _thing_ that painted me in a bad light?

The root problem here wasn’t that I was a self-serving bastard, was it?

No. No, it couldn’t be.

I was here to save Gwen-

_I was here because it was the only escape from a nuke in the harbor, and saving Gwen was the price._

I helped out Natalia-

_In exchange for her teaching me Common, giving me a place to live, and paying me_.

I was a Friend in Denerim-

_For pay. To establish an identity in the world, to build up a skill set that I could market to the Inquisition_.

I gave Natalia’s house to the Chantry-

_Because I didn’t want it, and signing it over alleviated the debt I owed the Chantry_.

I helped the widow and her sisters in West Hill _for pay_. I joined Boomer in Highever _for pay_. I ditched him at a moment’s notice for the Chargers _for pay_. Everything I had done as a Charger had been _my job_. Everything except...

...except when I ditched the Chargers to go to Amaranthine.

Why had I gone to Amaranthine? Was I so indebted to Ophelia for the camaraderie over the years in Denerim, her family taking me in, that I was willing to throw everything away to go help her? Or was it just that I would have felt bad if something had happened to her and I’d just stood by? My rule seemed to be to do anything to keep me from feeling bad, after all. 

But, Maker’s taint, I was on this litter because I had been an impatient dickhole when One and Two were injured in Therinfal. Krem and Stitches had probably decided to do for me what I had wanted to do for them, and see how it was working out for me? Trapped in my head, strapped to a board, bouncing down the road and hoping my team cleans up this Pride demon in a hurry so we can find me a place to heal up.

And, again, it was all about me.

By the time Stitches changed my compresses, at noon on the day after I woke up, I was so full of self-loathing I could barely stand to hear my own voice.

Why had Andraste bothered with me?

Was I picked because, like she said, she couldn’t save us all and she wanted to help _someone_? Was I just the lucky asshole who was in the right place at the right time?

Was the job she gave me a pittance? Was Gwen really going to be fine on her own, and I was just told to save her because Andraste knew I needed something to keep me on the straight and narrow?

What the fuck was I doing with my life?

I’d always worked well with goals. The Chief was right. I needed goals. I needed to get myself back on track.

Goal one. Don’t be a dick.

Goal two. Be a better soldier.

Goal three. Figure out how to tell Gwen... everything.

Goal four. Find Ophelia.

The first was difficult and permanent. The second was attainable. The third was anxiety-inducing. And the fourth... The fourth was very likely impossible.

“Krem?”

“Hold on, I’ll get him,” Siren answered immediately.

“You asked for me, Twitch?” my Lieutenant asked after a few minutes.

“Am I self-centered, Lieut?”

He laughed, but the sound didn’t make me feel better.

“What, you serious?”

“Yeah. I’m stuck in my head down here. Need a hand. You know me pretty well by now. Tell me.”

“I mean, everybody’s selfish to an extent-“

“Krem.”

He sighed. “I never really thought about it, but yeah. You do get pretty focused on your own thing. It’s never been particularly hard to live with, though; you're not a narcissist or something. You’re definitely not as bad as the altus makes himself out to be.”

“But I’m not wrong to conclude that I’m a bit of a selfish prick.”

“That might be taking it too far, but no. No, you’re not completely wrong.”

“Fuck.”

“You’re trapped in your head, like you said, because you made sure you were the last one off the beach. You followed your order to the end, without hesitation. From where I’m standing, regardless of what your motivation was, the outcome was all anyone could have asked of you. The Chief would say the same.”

“I want to be better,” I confessed.

“Okay. Be better.”

“Will you help?”

“Help how?”

“Help hold me to a higher standard.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. How about this, then. I’ve got enough shit to do without serving as your conscience. You want to get better? Be better. But don’t put the responsibility on somebody else.”

“Shit. Sorry, Lieut.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be accountable to yourself. Nobody has any complaints about your service as a Charger. You don’t need me to call you to task there – I already do. If your problem is internal, then it’s you who has to fix it. I’m no mind reader.”

“No, that’s fair. You’re right.”

“Of course he’s right, he’s Krem,” The Iron Bull’s voice rumbled from alarmingly close by. “You’re supposed to be resting, not monopolizing my Lieutenant. Go to sleep, Twitch. You can wrestle with your conscience when you’re healthy.”

“Yes, ser,” I agreed readily.

Krem and Bull’s voices faded into the distance, and I set about following my Chief’s order. Bull says sleep, I sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news... Merry Stinking Christmas. Happy Holidays. May whatever day you celebrate, rock.  
> I'm travelling on the 24th to deliver the cookies I've spent the last week baking. I'm working the 25th (hooray health care) and all the following week. And then we're ringing in the new year with my husband's best friend in upstate New York. I look to be surrounded by love for the remainder of this shitty year, and I hope every last one of you can say the same. <3


	39. Face of Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A transition: Twitch gets his face fixed, Gwen tells a story, new connections are made.

The Chief had a point. Recovering from a third-degree burn to the face was a bad time to try to become more selfless. I had to heal, had to rest, had to eat a bit more than normal, had to drink more than normal, had to sit and be tended to by Stitches.

_Get better. Be better_. I had a mantra, now, it seemed.

By the time we reached the Inquisition encampment nearest the Enavuris river, I was recovered enough to have the poultice off my face. Stitches hadn’t declared me battle ready yet – I was pretty dehydrated still, from the burn and the fever – but I was prepared to throw myself at the Pride demon if it came to last-ditch efforts.

“You’ve got two hours!” Krem called as we filed into camp. “Triage, patch armor, and be back on the road! We’ve got a demon to kill!”

I took three steps toward Stitches – determined to get clearance to aid in the assault – when Lead Scout Harding’s voice countered Krem’s command. “Demon’s been cleared! Stand down!”

“Med call!” Stitches called. I had hands on me, then, shoving me clear to the front of the pack. I stumbled to a halt facing Stitches and found him giving terse report to Gwen.

Gwen? What the fuck was Gwen doing out here?

I wasn’t focusing on Stitches’ words in the thinly organized chaos, not as well as I would have liked to. Gwen went ghost white when our chirurgeon said the word _dreadnaught_ , and immediately turned and sprinted off in the direction the Chief had gone. She was holding hands with some woman – I didn’t get a good look at her past noticing she was present – but her other companion stepped forward to continue the discussion with Stitches. I fought to focus in on their words.

“Well, because I’m a healer,” the man said, in answer to whatever Stitches had asked him. “I shouldn’t have any problem getting you all in top shape.”

He stepped up to face me, toe-to-toe, and I couldn’t help but recognize him.

“Anders?” I gasped as he reached up with both hands to turn my face under his assessing gaze.

“Depends on who is asking,” he quipped offhandedly as he inspected my partially-healed burn.

“Friend of Opie’s,” I answered, and he stilled briefly. I mentally thanked Alistair for telling me and Hawke the story of Solona’s leaving the Circle, so that I had a legitimate opening with Anders. It would be nice to hear from the man himself how he managed to sneak Ophelia out of Kinloch Hold, since I’d never thought to ask Opie for the particulars.

“I haven’t heard that name in a decade,” he said softly as cold began to seep into my cheek and chin. Adaar’s healing had been pointed, piercing; Anders’ was like sitting on ice and having it creep slowly into your bones through layers of armor, cloth, and flesh. My skin began to prickle between my ear and lips, and the persistent dryness in my throat melted away. He stepped away but held my chin, turning my head gently under a practiced eye. “Perhaps we can speak of our old friend while we are on the road to Skyhold.”

“I would like that,” I confessed readily.

Anders nodded and then released me. I stepped away to be immediately seized by Stitches, my chin grasped far less kindly, and my head swiveled around so he could assess my face.

“Huh. Skin’s pinked, but just because it’s new. Some sun will even you right out. Managed to weasel out of a mighty fine scar, Twitch.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Don’t let anybody tell you that you don’t look like genlock grundle.”

“I think Wilder finds me pretty,” I countered, and he released me with a laugh.

“Back to work, slackass.”

I did as I was told, launching into camp setup to make up for my days of convalescence. Anders worked his way through the Chargers, healing up any residual complaints from the battle with the Venatori. There were a number of others with burns, both from the spellbinders and the dreadnaught when it blew, but none had been anywhere near as severe as mine. I could only be grateful; first, that I had the worst of it, and second that I’d had not one but _two_ spirit healers attend to me. That was two-thirds of the known spirit healers left in Southern Thedas.

All I needed was Solona to show up, and I’d be the luckiest son of a bitch on two legs.

The Chief came around as we were putting the finishing touches on camp, and he was smiling for the first time in days. “We’ve got new orders!” he announced without preamble. “Escort duty.”

Escorts were, far and away, the simplest of jobs. We were a big enough company that our charge would hide easily in our ranks. The Chief was good about only taking on clients who weren’t massive pains to deal with.

“We’re hauling your Ma back to Skyhold,” he continued, and a rough cheer went up.

“Wait, why’s Ma out here?” Krem asked, waving us silent.

“She’s promised that story,” Chief answered with a grin. “She said it required alcohol and a suspension of disbelief.”

“Story time!” Squirrel hooted from somewhere out of sight.

“Bust out a cask!” Krem called to Rocky, who was using a beer barrel as a stool.

We were assembled around the fire within minutes, mugs at hand and ready to listen. Gwen appeared in Bull’s wake, and perched demurely on a barrel produced for that purpose.

“I have discovered a new ability in myself,” she announced, and we were all instantly in her thrall. There were few things in Thedas as well-loved as a new story. “It seems, because I have this odd relationship with the Veil, that I can step through it as if I was a mage. I’ve consulted with Solas, here, as well as Anders, and they both assure me that what I am doing uses no magic, and in fact should not be possible. And yet, a week past, I took a single step in a dream and moved myself from my room in Skyhold to the bank of the Enavuris river.

“I was looking for Solas, if I’m to be completely honest. He had left Skyhold at some point in the days prior, and Hellen gave me permission to search for him in the Fade. When I found him, I Stepped to him as soon as I suspected I could, without stopping to wonder whether or not I should. It took far more energy than I considered possible, and I was well and truly exhausted when I arrived.

“You all are well aware of the Pride demon that was on the bank of the river – you were sent here to kill it, after all. Solas was keeping an eye on it, and I was able to help him sever the demon’s connection to the Fade, weakening it greatly. After that, it was possible for Solas to dispatch it on his own. However, that was another expenditure of energy unlike anything I had ever experienced. I exhausted all my reserves of stamina and collapsed.

“Andraste seems to have a soft spot for me, and of all people who could have been wandering the Dales that night, we were happened upon by Anders in the moments after I fell. He helped Solas revive me and has kept me hale in the intervening time. As I understand it, he did so by replacing my expended energy with his own, a personal sacrifice I will never be able to repay. You have all met Anders, right? He was helping heal people when you arrived. Oh, yes, I see Twitch’s face is _much_ improved.”

“Ain’t never heard _that_ before,” Daft snarked, and the group laughed.

“I could simply Step through the Fade back to Skyhold,” she continued after letting the laugher run its course, “but given how thoroughly exhausted I was the last time I did it, I should probably practice with smaller journeys before attempting to cross entire regions again. That is why I have been ordered by Hellen – and Cullen, and Leliana, and… you get the point – to travel back to Skyhold with the Chargers. If you will take me?”

There was cheering, then, and more than a few claps to Anders’ back. He was known to have blown up the Chantry in Kirkwall, but taking care of us and our Ma seemed to have put him right back into good graces, with the Chargers at least.

I began to stand to ask about the woman, who still had a death grip on Gwen’s hand, when the strange female caught my eye. There was something... _off_ about her, but nothing I could quite put my finger on. Who was she? Where did she fit into the story? But before I got my feet under me, she put one finger to her lips and shook her head with a smile.

I eased back down, confused. A glance around created the sinking suspicion that none of the rest of the Chargers had noticed her. Once I looked away, I realized I couldn’t recall any of her features. I looked back, and while she was in my vision she seemed fairly normal. She was odd, somehow, but definitely human and female.

I found myself frowning at her. After a moment she shook her head again, and gestured at Bull, before putting her finger to her mouth again in a shushing motion. Then she winked at me.

She didn’t want me to draw attention to her, I assumed. More importantly, she didn’t want me to draw _Bull’s_ attention to her. Gwen was under the scrutiny of Solas and Anders both – two individuals who seemed to know more about spirits and demons than most anyone else we’d ever encountered – so I couldn’t quite bring myself to worry about the woman that nobody seemed to notice but me. It seemed more likely that she was like Cole – I’d never had a problem picking Cole out of a crowd, and we’d never even been formally introduced – and Cole was pretty universally regarded as Gwen’s first line of defense.

Cole, then the Chargers, then Cullen and his entire fucking army.

I was watching Anders and Solas then, as much as possible, and they both seemed fully aware of Gwen’s mysterious companion, if nobody else did.

I met her eyes again. She winked, and put her finger to her lips a third time.

I shrugged, and followed her silent command. It was very likely that the whole thing was none of my fucking business, and I was content to leave well enough alone.

Gwen was making the rounds through the Chargers, then – being passed around, really. Everyone wanted to tell her the story of the escape from the Dreadnaught, the fight with the Venatori. I got pulled into Stitches’ retelling, which was when the true extent of my burns were described to Gwen.

“Jesus fuck, you could have lost your eyes,” she gasped, the two languages twisting up into a statement that was unapologetically Gwen. “I thought I was lucky to have Anders roll up, but you got Hellen _and_ Anders. You didn’t see Solona Amell, by chance, did you?”

I laughed and waved her off. “I haven’t seen the Warden Commander since she left Denerim for Amaranthine after the Blight.”

Her eyes sharpened, and I didn’t know if she was thinking very hard or if it was straight jealousy I was seeing. “Did you meet her? Or just see her around?”

“Oh, no, I met her. We had some mutual friends, so our paths crossed a time or two.”

Her brow furrowed as her gaze sharpened further. She opened her mouth to ask another question, and I braced for impact.

“Ma!” Squirrel said, timing the single syllable for the moment her hands came down on Gwen’s shoulders. “Ma, come see Daft’s scar! He won’t let Anders heal it, he wants you to see it first.”

“Maker’s face, that man is well named,” Gwen laughed as the elven scout dragged her away.

“Someday somebody’s going to pull that story out of you,” Siren remarked quietly from just behind me right shoulder.

I smiled and nodded. “But today is not that day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hate to do this.  
> But I'm going to slow down a bit on posting.  
> Not a lot, mind you. You'll still hear from me at least once a week, between this story and Steel Your Heart (which has a chapter uploaded and will be the next update), because I can't not post. I die a little inside.  
> BUT  
> My every-other-Sunday Dragon Age RPG campaign is finally kicking off this month. I've got some writing to do there.  
> And I just agreed to DM a new Pathfinder campaign for my bestie & our husbands, because we were jonesing for a specific kind of game and decided to just make our own.   
> I'm playing in a game on Tuesdays, now, too!  
> So my life is condensing down to work, housework, and writing in three worlds.   
> If I'm honest, I've got two other things I've been working on, on the side, that I'm not willing to announce yet because I'll get mobbed.   
> I would rather slow down than post things I'm not completely happy with, so you'll hear from me a bit less often in the Pillars of Creation universe. I will be posting the adventures of my DA RPG group and possibly my Pathfinder campaign if it goes well.   
> And, I'll admit, the more notes I get, the more I want to write and post, so if you're not happy with my posting less you should talk to me more. ;)


	40. Conversations in Transit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Chargers escort Gwen home from the Exalted Plains, and have plenty of time to chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coincides with Chapter 39 over on Keep to the Stars.

We left the next morning. Now that we had Gwen with us, the temptation to ask her about her cell phone was almost unbearable. Was the battery draining at the same rate it did back home? Did she have a means to charge it? What kind of shit did she have on there?

...was it worth it to go back to Denerim for mine?

Would it even be intact? Functional? 21st-Century tech wasn’t really built to last, after all.

Gwen was perched in front of Krem, sharing a saddle with my Lieutenant. Dalish was still a bit shaken and drawn from the experience on the Storm Coast, and I hung around to make sure she stayed in a saddle and could let her mind wander. She was largely responsible for all of us coming out of that shitshow alive; I wasn’t the only one who was trying to express gratitude, but we all had our own ways. I made it a point to reorient her to the present every few hours, with a touch to her shoulder. Each time, Dalish would cover my hand with her own, thank me quietly in elven, and then go right back into her seeming mental absence. The woman who was attached to Gwen appeared to be doing the same thing at Krem’s side, although her hand was clasped around Gwen’s ankle as she ran aside. More than once, people walked next to her or shifted around her to interact with Gwen, and not once did anybody else acknowledge her existence. Gwen would look down from time to time with a smile; otherwise it was if the strange woman didn't exist.

Dalish and I kept close to the Lieutenant for a good chunk of the morning, and I listened to Gwen babble endless questions at Krem about Thedas in general and the Chargers in specific. I was hoping to overhear an opening, eavesdrop an opportunity to direct the conversation towards music, but if my chance came I was too distracted to take it.

Since I was distracted by Anders, I couldn’t really complain.

“Here, ride by me," he said without preamble as he appeared at my side. “I want to chat and don't want to wait until we get to Skyhold.”

I shrugged and did as he told me. Dalish stayed close, if absent; if I didn’t know better I’d say she was meditating on horseback. If it helped her recover from the ordeal from a week past, so be it. There wasn’t anything I would say to Anders that she couldn’t hear; she’d met Opie, after all.

“I’d introduce myself, but you seem to know who I am.”

I grinned at him. “Not many healers left. Hellen and Solona don’t look anything like you. Pretty easy to narrow down who you had to be.”

“Fair. There’s a whole pack of Chargers, though, and I have no idea who you are.”

“Twitch.”

Anders shot me a sidelong look. “Do all the Chargers have that sort of name?”

“More or less. Krem goes by his real name. Everybody else has a pseudonym, although everybody’s reason is different. You know how it goes.”

“That I do.”

“I have to admit, Opie didn’t tell me about leaving the Circle. I got that story from Alistair, just recently.”

“You- what? Alistair? You’ve seen Alistair?”

“He’s at Skyhold with Hawke. I asked him to introduce me to Garrett. Good guy.”

Anders clenched his eyes shut and tipped his head to the side. “Okay. So besides _Twitch_ , who the Void are you?”

“Did Solona ever bitch about Alistair giving away a sword to some nobody in Denerim?”

Anders’ eyes flew wide and then he grinned broadly. “Would that sword happen to be yours?”

“Haven’t let it out of my sight since.”

“She said she didn’t have a chance to figure out what it was enchanted with before Alistair handed it off. She liked to use it as an example of why he wasn’t responsible for the money. Or the gear. Or any of the decisions, really. It was fun to watch.”

I watched as the smile slowly slid off his face. “Ah, but that means you were… You had a rough time, I wager. The person Alistair gave that sword to wasn’t very, um, stable, I suppose I could say?"

“I was as alone as it is possible for a man to be,” I confirmed softly. “The Chantry took me in, and then gave me to a good woman – Natalia, her name – to help me get back on my feet. Natalia was a friend of Opie’s, and the two of them beat me into shape.”

“So Opie’s been in Denerim all this time?”

I shrugged. “She was until the Circles fell and the Templars all lost their minds. She made a run for Amaranthine, but Solona had pulled the Wardens out. I got word she was on the run and I went to meet her; managed to get her out of a corner and smuggled her out West. She was in Val Royeaux last anyone knew. She’s disappeared again, though. There’s a dozen of us organizing a search. No clue where she went. You wouldn’t have any idea, would you?”

Anders shrugged. “Like I said, it’s been a decade since I so much as heard her name. Solona and I spoke of her occasionally, before I left for Kirkwall, but there’s a reason we change our names when we leave the Circles. The less you talk about people, the less likely you are to be overheard, the less likely you are to sell out your friends.”

“Which would be why she never mentioned you.”

“Never?” Anders repeated, managing to sound offended through a laugh. “Not once?”

I shook my head. “Not a once.”

“That bitch! And here I thought I meant something to her.”

“If she’s holding with your logic, then her not talking about you means you _did_ mean something to her.”

Anders shook his head ruefully. “I was too wrapped up in escape to form relationships. I used her friendship with Solona to get out of that place. Once I had us both on shore, I handed her off to Solona and trusted the Templars to focus on her instead of me. Uldred coming in behind us and wrecking the Circle is ultimately what bought my freedom; the Templars had better things to do than chase me. Solona said she destroyed every phylactery in Irving’s office, and with my history I’m sure mine was one of them. Can you blame me for not dwelling on my past, given the cost?”

“No,” I answered shortly.

Anders sighed, and we rode along in silence for a bit. Gwen’s babble hovered in the air behind us, creating more ambiance than interest, like crickets at night.

“So tell me how you met Solona,” Anders requested casually.

I laughed and shook my head. “That is the only story anybody wants to hear,” I replied. “I can tell you I met her through Opie, and beyond that it’s nothing I can talk about openly. I was doing a job that she and Opie had hands in, and if you know anything about the sort of shit Solona has done-“

“Oh, no, I need no more information than that,” Anders laughed. “I don’t think I want to know, if it’s _that_ kind of story.”

“I would offer to tell you about meeting Alistair but you know that one,” and I gestured to the sword at my hip.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see what sort of enchantment is on it. I’d love to know exactly how much wealth Alistair actually gave away when he gifted it to you.”

“Is that something you can do?” I asked as I quickly unsheathed the blade and handed it to him, hilt-first.

“It’s fundamentally just lyrium and runes,” he answered as he took the sword from me. “I’m no dwarf, and I wouldn’t attempt any runecrafting on my own, but I can read what’s written.”

He spun the sword lightly in his hands, angling it in the light until whatever he was looking for caught his eye. His hand glowed gently white – almost imperceptibly, in bright light of day – and then writing appeared on the blade itself. The text was in a long line down the middle of the blade, hidden in the contours of the fuller. It was somehow part of the metal itself, not raised or etched but just a glow that only appeared when the lyrium it was written with was triggered. It wasn’t legible to me, but it had Anders frowning thoughtfully.

“Odd. It has the standard runing for a magical blade that’s meant to outlive its owner – resilience, tempering, honing – the sort that means it won’t break, won’t dull, won’t rust. You know, the reason you can find perfectly good weapons in flooded tombs?”

“I _don’t_ know, but sure. If you say so.”

“But the main enchantment, the one those are protecting… there’s only the one, and it’s just a strong version of indomitability. It’s not worth much, on the open market, but Solona would have killed for this blade.”

“Indomitability? What does that do for the sword?”

Anders shook his head, and handed the sword back to me. “It does nothing for the sword. That’s the trait it passes on to the wielder. It’s uncommon, now, but you see it a lot on elven blades that were forged prior to the fall of Arlathan. You see, the use of magic, especially for dreamers or those interacting frequently with spirits or demons, relies heavily on the personal willpower of the mage. This enchantment enhances the will of the wielder. The average sword-swinger wouldn’t benefit much from it, and most mages don’t use swords anymore. I can see Solona learning sword-play just to experiment with the runing. I bet she… are you okay?”

“No,” I answered, honestly. There was no other word for the tsunami of thoughts his explanation had released.

“Oh, don’t worry about Solona. If she ever tumbles out of the woods _and_ finds you _and_ remembers who you are _and_ remembers to check the sword for the enchantment, she’d just use it to harass Alistair more. She’s a bit… well. Unpredictable. But she’s, uh, Valorous, and, um, just and fair, and she’s never blamed you for having it. I’m sure she’d buy it off you if it really came to that.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said, shakily. I could only be grateful that he’d come up with his own explanation for my shocked reaction to the enchantment on my sword blade.

Had I been able to forget who I was _because_ of this blade? Is it something I could have done without it? Was it the sword or my own will that Opie felt?

Except no, because Gwen had pulled off a door handle like I had. And there was that line Solas had said about how she wasn’t in danger from demons. So there’s definitely _something_ to be said about Gwen and I being fundamentally different from the natives of Thedas.

And what the fuck were the chances that _this_ is the blade Sten _just happened_ to have handy when I came running out of the Chantry like a mad man that morning in Denerim all those years ago?

Was anything a coincidence? Was I being led through life by my nose? Or was it possible I really was this insanely lucky?

Was I really contemplating fate and the secrets of the universe because of a shitty sword enchantment?

“So what you’re saying,” I managed to say, while Anders watched me with growing concern, “is that I’ve been wasting whetstones all these years?”

The apostate burst out laughing and reached out to clap a hand to my shoulder. “An utter waste, my friend.”

“Well, shit.”

 

*  
  


We chatted most of the rest of the afternoon. He seemed like an altogether decent sort of guy. I saw no signs that the man was unhinged, even when we rode close to Gwen for a time and she asked Justice a couple questions.

The fact he was even alive told me a lot about his relationship with Hawke, if the game I’d played all those years ago had the particulars right. Admittedly, I was beginning to wonder if it hadn’t.

“So, you know Gwen fairly well?” he asked after a brief lull.

“Fairly,” I agreed easily. “We’ve been keeping an eye on her since she fell out of that portal at Redcliffe. She’s the unofficial Charger Mom.”

“She’s not quite _that_ old,” he countered. There was something in his tone that surprised me, a sort of defensiveness I wasn’t expecting.

“It’s an honorary thing,” I said, trying to laugh it off. “She’s early thirties, I think. So, no, not _that_ old.”

“Huh.”

“You’ve got to be, what? Thirty-five at least? Solona was 18 when the Blight struck ten years ago, and Opie was four years older than her, and you’re older than Opie by at least a couple-“

“Oy! Hey now. No need for advanced mathematics. Your original estimate was quite good enough, thank you. Suffice to say I’m only a few years older than your Seer. She’s not _that old_.”

“Rumor has it, she’s got a thing going with the Commander,” I told him, realizing suddenly where his thoughts might be headed. He didn’t seem to be concerned about his own age, but more rather the implied slight to Gwen.

“I heard,” he replied, a bit sourly; and I knew.

“He’s kind of a twat,” I confided in a low voice. “I think she could do better.”

Anders’ eyes flew wide and then he burst out laughing. “I’d ask why you’d hold that opinion, but you are a friend of _Opie’s_ so I suppose it’s to be expected.”

There was a line of thought that I hadn’t come across before. Opie was best friends in the Circle with the Warden, so she would have had a run-in with Cullen as a newbie Templar. Did Solona tell her friend how he’d flipped out when she rescued him from the broken tower? Did they have some other sort of history? If my opinion was apparently in line with hers… had he hurt her?

That definitely did not sit well with me. I had to deal with the Commander now and couldn’t get Ophelia’s side of the story any time soon, so I had to just set it all aside. Anders tossing it out as an excuse for my opinion of Cullen was better than my real reason, so I tried to feel grateful.

“He’s better now,” Anders said softly, reading something in my gaze. “He sided with Hawke, in the end; from the paperwork Aveline confiscated, his wasn’t the hand that held the brand, ever, as far as we can tell. He had limited involvement in the _disciplining_ of mages,” his mouth twisted angrily on the word, “both from his own request and as per the instructions Gregoire sent when Cullen was transferred to Kirkwall.”

“That’s what they called it?” I asked, letting myself, for one bitter moment, remember exactly what Ophelia looked like when I finally found her in Amaranthine. “They called it _discipline_?”

Anders smiled, then. It was a smile in form only – there was no joy in that expression. An electric blue glow fluttered at the corners of his eyes and I knew, viscerally, why it was so easy to paint him the villain, why the Templars would have feared him, why the bounty got so high.

“You should have been with us,” he said softly. “We could have used somebody like you, a time or ten.”

God. Fucking. _Damn it_.

“I thought about it,” I told him, honestly. “Just as I was leaving Denerim, I got word that Hawke had killed the Arishok. The thought of going to Kirkwall had passed my mind, no joke.”

“Ah, well, it all worked out in the end.”

“And I was able to get to Ophelia when she got chased out of the alienage, so maybe it was better this way.”

Anders shrugged. “By the time the Templars split from the Chantry and starting putting mages to the sword, we’d long since scattered. You could have been in Denerim with her by then, for all we know.”

We got the order, then, to pull in for the night and start setting camp. I waved off Anders and fell into the routine of pitching tents, clearing spaces for fires, and setting up guard rotations. There was only so much respite to be found in the mostly mindless work; I couldn’t quite escape the thought that I’d just gotten verification that I’d done everything wrong.

I could have gone to Kirkwall, and done for Hawke what Gwen was doing for Adaar.

Okay, so, that wasn’t fair. By the time I had the means of getting to Kirkwall I would have shown up well after the Arishok was dead and all the balls were already rolling. The choices had already been made, I wouldn’t have been much help in that sense. I would have been too late to save Leandra, too late to save the Viscount, too late to do much of anything but console.

And Maker knows I was shitty at consoling.

The simple truth was, if I’d gone to Kirkwall instead of Highever, I still could have gotten to Amaranthine to save Ophelia, and then the two of us would have…

Well, who knows what Ophelia would have decided. Because the only way I would have gone to Kirkwall is if I hadn’t opted to forget everything that had happened in my life before I arrived in Denerim.

It was circuitous thinking, and I couldn’t escape it.

It haunted me through my turn at watch. I didn’t dream – I hadn’t dreamed but once since I’d been in Thedas – but my sleep was restless and hard won. We broke camp in the morning and I was desperate for anything to pull my out of the prison of my thoughts.

“Hey Ma,” I said, before I could think better of it.

“Yeah, Twitch?”

“We heard about you, up in the Inquisitor’s tower. People said it was like music, but nothing they had any way to describe. What is it about?”

“Like music?” she laughed. “I would contend it _is_ music. But you guys weren’t in Skyhold at the time, right? So you didn’t actually hear it. I don’t have my cell with me, or I’d play it for you.”

“Cell?” Siren repeated the alien word, bless her.

“If you could take one thing to a medieval society to prove you were a powerful wizard,” Gwen sighed, rather wistfully, to herself in English. “And to think I forgot it.”

“Stay on target,” Krem chided, and we lost Gwen for a moment as she laughed.

“Right. Right. Sorry. You heard about the... the metal box I had? The thin one that I used to make images and sounds?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll show it to you when we get back to Skyhold. It’s a communication device, in my world. We use them to talk to each other over incredible distances. We used it to store things, too... like writing down a story in a book, we could use them to save songs and images and moments... like having a memory that you could hold in your hand and show to other people. I really loved music, so I had a lot of music saved on mine. I could take it with me to work and play it while I was charting or in a moment of downtime. I made lists of things I liked, based on the mood it inspired when I listened to them. I had song collections that were happy or sad or funny or made me want to dance or run or sleep.”

Everybody was silent for a moment, mulling over her words, but I wasn’t content.

“Could you sing us something?”

“Yes!” Dalish immediately echoed, surprising me. She seemed to want a distraction as badly as I did.

“You want me to-“

“Yes, we can’t march on silently!” Meck called from somewhere behind and to her left, just out of my line of sight.

“We need Ma’s music to march by!” Daft agreed, appearing out of the trees.

“It’s not just _words_ ,” she protested, laughing. “There’s so many instruments and effects that-“

“Pick something!” Siren called, and soon half the Chargers were calling out, a raucous mix of pleas and demands.

“Alright, alright,” Gwen capitulated, putting up both hands palm-out to beg a moment to think.

“Can you hum something for me?” she asked me.

I could have swallowed my tongue, I worked so hard to keep my damn mouth shut as I nodded.

She gave me a simple two-note pattern to repeat, and after a moment Dalish joined in. A moment after that, Siren – to my endless surprise – came in and stayed in tune. It was a minor miracle.

Gwen had Grim keep rhythm with another simple pattern, and he achieved it with the hilt of his axe and one of his vambraces.

Once she was sure we had it together, Gwen settled against Krem, closed her eyes, and sang.

“Boys working on empty. Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat? I just think about my baby; I’m so full of love I can barely eat.”

The song wasn’t meant for her voice. It was meant to be lower, deeper, harsher; she hit the bottom of her range and was still just a bit too sweet, too high.

It did not matter. I didn’t recognize it, didn’t know it, but knew, _knew_ , it was from Home.

It was unlike anything the rest of the Chargers had ever heard before. There was dead silence when she finished, for the space of five heartbeats. Six. Her smile faltered and I saw her confidence waver.

“Sing another,” I demanded.

Her eyes flashed wide briefly with surprise and then she laughed. “Another? I-“

“Something in your range,” Krem asked, shrewdly.

Gwen glanced over her shoulder, her look plainly confused at such a comment from the Lieutenant.

“Alright, alright, hold on. Give me a second.” She stopped, and a considering look furrowed her brow. “Grim. New beat. Ready?” She talked him through two different rhythms, told him the signal for when to change, and then tipped her head back and belted out something I hadn’t heard in ten years.

“Give me a second – I need to get my story straight. My friends are in the bathroom getting higher than the Empire State. My lover, she is waiting for me, just across the bar. My seat’s been taken by some sunglasses, asking about a scar and- I know I gave it to you months ago. I know you’re trying to forget. But between the drinks and subtle things, the holes in my apologies, I’m trying hard to take it back. So if by the time the bar closes and you feel like falling down, I’ll carry you home...”

I managed to check my facial expression, wipe it clean, before she launched into the refrain. Nobody was looking at _me_ , it was stupid to be self-conscious, but years of hiding didn’t end over night. Even Bull was staring at her, agape, as she directed Grim through the tempo changes and managed to carry the song on her own.

Andraste’s asshole, she had three-dozen eager backup singers if she ever let us hear the studio version of the song.

It was bigger than me, then. I’d set the ball rolling, but she’s exposed a veritable well of information none of the Chargers had even knew _existed_ before this afternoon, and they were suddenly insatiable. Gwen’s voice was going rough when she finally begged for a reprieve, _hours_ later, and instead promised to bring her phone to the Herald’s Rest once we were back to Skyhold.

“As if we’ll get a chance to see you once the Inquisitor gets her paws on you,” Krem scoffed.

“She can’t keep me in the war room forever,” Gwen countered with a laugh. “I come to the tavern in the evenings more often than not, Kremmie. I love you guys. I take the job of Charger Mom _very seriously_. The least I can do is teach you some lullabies.”

Krem coughed a laugh and shook his head. “I meant, we won’t see you again, once the Inquisitor _kills you_ for flying out of Skyhold.”

“Yeah,” she grunted. “I’m fucked.”

“Completely fucked.”

“And you earned it!” Siren called.

Gwen solemnly flipped the warrior off, in a gesture that translated faithfully from its Earth meaning. It earned her laughs, as was surely her intention.

“And you’d do it again,” Dalish added, a bit more softly but still pitched to carry.

“In a heartbeat,” Gwen confessed.

Krem sighed, and the sentiment was shared by us all. If our Ma was hellbent on taking insane risks, we’d have to do our best to save her from herself.


	41. The Winter Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A transitional chapter encompassing the time leading up to Halamshiral and the week spent therein.

Much to our communal surprise, Gwen made her triumphant return to the Herald’s Rest after only one night’s absence. In a move that thrilled everyone, she brought her cell phone.

She said she could use it as much as she wanted, because in the blue bag Adaar had retrieved from Redcliffe was a way to feed it energy from the sun.

She had a solar panel. Why the hell would she have thought to even own a portable solar panel, much less have it handy for the apocalypse, as a nurse who just drove back and forth to a hospital every day? I managed to insert just enough leading questions for the rest of the Chargers to take up the call to see this bag for themselves, and after three or four nights we got a little field trip to Gwen’s new tower rooms. Even better, The Kirkwall Crew, as Gwen was calling them, tagged along.

Even Varric. He was studiously not speaking to Gwen as much as possible, and being far more sarcastic than normal when he did. Nobody really blamed him for it – including Gwen, who seemed to just roll with it.

The rooms in her tower were... uncomfortable, at best.

They were large – taking up two entire floors in a massive tower – which just her living room encompassing as much space as the Charger bunkroom. They were decorated with a mix of styles from all over Thedas, which was jarring to me in a way I didn’t expect. But one top of that...

There was a pair of blue jeans slung over the back of a chair, almost dry from the wash.

Her black-and-white shoes were sitting on their toes, leaning up against the bottom poster of her bed, scuffed and horribly out of place.

There was a quill, pot of ink, and two sets of writing on the desk upstairs – Thedosian and English. A cell phone plugged into what could only be her solar panel on the broad work bench was surrounded by a series of flasks at various stages of distilling and a clump of elfroot freshly harvested from the garden to be processed.

Everyone’s eyes were darting every which way, trying to take in all the oddities that Gwen was surrounded with, so I didn’t worry overmuch about my own clear discomfort. It all struck too close to home. It was a reminder that she was an _alien_ here.

It was a reminder that I was an alien here.

I was on the stairs when the blue bag came out of the chest. I didn’t need a close look, though; I’d seen something exactly like it before, many times. It was a dry bag – didn’t matter the brand name – with a folding seal at the top and clips at the side to hold it shut; it was effectively waterproof. It wasn’t exactly a common item to own... unless you were the sort of person who carted expensive or fragile equipment around outdoors or were really big into watersports.

I’d spent enough weekends at Faire and East Kingdom events to have seen my share of them, though. They were most common on rafting trips, and while it had been over a dozen years since I’d been on white water recreationally, I still knew what the bag was for.

As Gwen pulled a few items out to rearrange them in the bag, I saw a hand-crank radio and a complicated sort of water bottle that was probably a purifier.

It was a bug out bag.

Gwen had come to Thedas with a bug out bag.

She didn’t strike me as the kind of person who would keep a well-supplied bag sitting handy so she could scoop it up in case of nuclear detonation. I’d been with her for two days on the road and the only word for her camping style was _awkward_. This wasn’t adding up.

She flipped the bag over and a tag came into view, attached to one of the carry straps. I managed to ease close enough to get a good look at it.

On the first of every month – or the 31st of the month before, a couple times – there was a dated note that read “checked by Patrick.”

The back of the tag read, in fat block letters, **Property of SSG Patrick Dolen**.

She had mentioned her husband having served in the military, now that I thought about it. It had been one of those first cold nights in the blizzard after Haven had fallen, during our Long Walk, and it hadn’t stood out in my mind as important. I was briefly surprised by her not taking her husband’s last name.

But once I said it once in my head – Gwen Dolen, or worse, Gwendolyn Dolen – I chuckled to myself and wagered I knew why she went by ‘Murray.’

She was starting to shoo us out of the apartment, but we’d fulfilled a number of purposes and were willing to go. In addition to satisfying our curiosity, we’d all gotten good looks at every way in and out of her apartment and the layout of the inside. We were already pretty well aware of her daily schedule; this was the last bit of information we needed to protect her from whoever the fuck had sent over a dozen assassins to kill her. Knowing someone had been systematically murdering them took some of the stress out of the job, but we’d been hard on her heels since we picked her up in the Exalted Plains. The Inquisitor had some errand she’d wanted to send us on, and nixed it in favor of the Chargers dogging Gwen’s steps as covertly as possible.

It wasn’t hard to have pairs of Chargers lounging about Skyhold in all the places she was likely to visit or was known to be headed for.

It was even easier to keep eyes on her when she spent most of her evenings in the ‘Rest with us. The unexpected upside to that was the chance to spend time with Hawke, Anders, Merrill and Varric as they had adopted the Herald’s Rest as their Hanged Man Away From Home. I didn’t get any time to chat with Hawke and Alistair like I had before, but I couldn’t help but feel like that night in the Inquisitor’s quarters was a gift rather than an overture of friendship.

Ultimately, watching Gwen was an even easier job than the trek to Adamant had been. If we weren’t keeping our eyes on a very real threat to someone who was essentially one of our own, we would have started to get whiny about the lack of challenges.

Instead, we trained.

Krem was sparring with Cullen as much as I was again, but only because Gwen, Bull, and myself had all been teaching Krem Qunlat for the last several months. Cullen was very nearly proficient in English in terms of his comprehension but hesitant in speaking; he had some work to become fluent but I suspected he would need to start having conversations with Gwen to bridge that gap.

None of us talked about the language lessons. The sparring with the Commander was common knowledge, though; I think the consensus was just that we were the best three fighters in the Chargers.

Since it was the Chargers who helped spread that rumor, I took it as a compliment.

We fell into a routine over the next month, but like all things it was fleeting. As winter crested into the holiday season and Satinalia neared, we were sent into a flurry of preparations for the trip to the Empress’ yearly ball at the Winter Palace. It seems the Chargers were the security force for the Inquisition’s chalet in Halamshiral.

The upcoming trip to Orlais was a blessing for me.

We wouldn’t be anywhere near Val Royeaux, of course. I wasn’t going to have an opportunity to try to trace Ophelia’s movements out of the capital city; quite the opposite. I was going to be so busy trying to protect Gwen in the very center of whatever plot was aimed at killing her that I wouldn’t have a chance to think about Opie.

Not that it had ever stopped me before.

Senna had gone strangely silent – Gil wasn’t much of a correspondent and Brue never mentioned the Tabris clan in letters – and I already knew I wasn’t going to hear anything from Alistair. The three Ns of Ostwick hadn’t come up with anything despite Nuggins seeming to think they had to find Opie to repay my tip to stay out of Haven. And, to the best of my knowledge, Solona still had no idea Opie was missing.

Varric and Sera were reporting giant goose eggs to Bull on the rare occasions I pestered him to inquire after them, and the Chief had no intelligence to suggest the Qun was looking for – or had come across – Ophelia. He wasn’t technically _in_ the Qun anymore, but that hadn’t mattered much to his personal contacts.

My only other option was the Nightingale, and she had _much_ bigger fish to fry. Also, I couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t reach out to Solona, which Alistair was pretty adamantly opposed to.

Ultimately, my hands were tied.  Until somebody had a lead for me to follow, Ophelia was lost.

It was far easier to focus my energies on a cause I had a more measurable degree of hope in.

The ride to Halamshiral, once it happened, was pretty awesome as far as the Chargers were concerned.

Gwen was coerced to sing almost continuously. The Inquisitor got in on it, prompting Gwen with songs she somehow knew we knew. Krem had developed an affinity for Queen that I was rather fond of, and he bugged Gwen for more and more Freddie Mercury at every opportunity.

Almost as good as Gwen’s attention was Hawke’s presence. Anders was left behind in Skyhold with Merrill and Alistair, but Hawke tagged along with the us. He said it was to keep an eye on Varric, but there were as many theories as there were Chargers for his real reasoning. He gave us plenty of opportunities to ask, by riding with us whenever he wasn’t with Varric or the Inquisitor.

“Actually, I’m fascinated by Gwen’s music,” he mentioned conspiratorially to me.

“I figured you wanted to keep Varric from taking another pot shot at Gwen,” I countered, caught between a laugh at his confession and pure unadulterated joy at his desire to chat with me.

He snorted. “That too. And when’s the last time a blood mage got within fifteen paces of Empress Celene _by invitation_? Who could pass that up?”

“You’re seriously a blood mage?”

I looked sideways at me. “I thought Anders said you were sympathetic to the cause. I didn’t mean to-“

“No, it’s not that. It’s just... I figured that was a rumor. Something meant to slight your character or cast your story into doubt.”

“I see.”

“Is it... is it anything I can ask about? I don’t mean to pry.”

Hawke shrugged. “Most everybody whose opinion means something speaks highly of you. I heard you are friends with the mage who escaped the Circle with Anders. I won’t promise to tell you all of my secrets, but if you have any pressing concerns...?”

“It’s just... you and Merrill... seem so _good_. And what they say about blood magic is just so... _awful_. I’m having a hard time with the dichotomy.”

“That’s not a way I’d ever heard it phrased before,” Hawke laughed. “Nobody calls _me_ good. At anything. Ever.”

It was my turn to snort. “I highly doubt that.”

“Okay, well, look. Blood magic is nothing more than an externalization of the internal workings of magic. When I cast a spell, where is the mana coming from?”

“Its... it’s a part of you, right?”

“It’s life force. Stamina, of a sort. It’s the ability to wield a tool. Imagine if you wanted to throw a ball of fire at somebody. You would need to find a combustible material, pack it into a ball, light it on fire, and then lob it. All of that requires physical effort. Energy. I do the same thing, just with magic. It’s the same basic concept; the more you train, the more you can do before you’re exhausted. A step further... if I’m to put the blood on the _outside_ of my body, then it becomes more potent. The problem comes when you are driven to more and more powerful magics that require more and more blood and you end up pulling it from the unwilling; that’s where it is unequivocally evil. Consent, my friend. It is the most critical component of magic.”

I had to mull over that a bit. Hawke chatted idly with Krem while I turned the thought around in my head.

“Good?” he asked when I caught his eye again.

“So why the linking of blood magic with demons? Why’s it all branded as evil?”

“Because the Chantry is full of hypocritical shit weasels,” he answered blandly. “Can mages be possessed by demons? Yes. Can one abomination wreak absolute havoc and kill countless people? Yes. Do some mages ask to be made Tranquil rather than dedicate themselves to fending off demonic influence? Yes. Does Tranquility work, in that sense? Absolutely. And blood magic that _compels_ someone to do something against their will is pure evil. But the kicker is this: by taking a young mage – a _child_ – and taking a drop of their blood to make their phylactery, the Chantry is using the _bad_ kind of blood magic. By me using the injuries given to me or my comrades in battle to defend us from our attackers, I am not violating any of the basic tenants of magic. Once the blood is on the ground, you can’t put it back. It’s functionally useless to the person who bled it out. There’s a difference there, between taking the spilled blood of armed combatants and, say, a child tied to a pole. These aren’t difficult moral distinctions. And, honestly, if it really bothers somebody I can exclude their blood from my spells – I did it for Fenris for a while, until he realized that my using it kept anybody else from scraping it up and using it to try to find him. And if I syphon the blood of the dead, I am desiccating their corpses to make burning them easier, so they can’t rise as undead. As long as I’m not interfering with anybody’s free will, I’m not attracting demons any more than an unbonded spirit healer. And let me tell you, those guys? Magnets.”

“So, phylacteries use compulsion?”

“You think there’s any other way Anders would have gone back to the Circle?”

“So why didn’t they just _compel_ Opie to come home?”

“Maybe they needed her to be complicit. Maybe the First Enchanter needed her continued cooperation. Maybe they thought she’d been grabbed by Anders and just needed to be freed. Maybe ol’ Curly refused to act on it. Maybe it had been made wrong. Maybe Opie _volunteered_ the blood and something about her sacrifice fucked up the compulsion. Maybe they tried and Solona destroyed the phylactery before it worked. Maybe they were afraid she’d Joined the Wardens and Duncan would come back and kick the shit out everybody. Maybe they-“

“I get your point. We can’t know.”

Hawke shrugged. “The point is, a phylactery doesn’t _have_ to be made with compulsion, and blood magic doesn’t _have_ to be evil. A fireball powered by mana, directed at an alienage, is more evil than Anders being able to heal somebody when he’s out of mana because I pull a dagger across my skin and give him the energy he needs.”

“That seems like a really valid point.”

“People are just really weird about blood,” he concluded. “And I’m an asshole who likes to thumb my nose at them about it.”

“Fair.”

“I thought you’d like that.”

“And Merrill?”

“What about Merrill?”

I got the sudden impression I was walking on dangerous ground. I swallowed and forged ahead. “The story of her losing her clan puts her more at fault than what seems plausible, now that I’ve met her.”

Hawke had a sad sort of smile for me. “The loss of her clan is far more complicated than a five-day jaunt on horseback could hope to clear up. Mistakes were made, by many people for many years. Maybe some day we’ll all sit around the tavern and I’ll tell you about it.”

“Only if Merrill is okay with it. I don’t want to dredge up bad memories in the name of my curiosity.”

“You’re a good man, Twitch.”

“I’m glad you think so, Hawke.”

 

*

 

Halamshiral was almost painfully boring.

The Chargers were responsible for the wing of Gaspard’s estate that the Inquisition occupied... for the first two days. And then the Boss killed Gaspard and we had the whole place to keep locked down. It wasn’t until the ride back that we got the full story – the Chief told us about it during the ride back – and at the time all we knew was the assassination plot against Gwen had been resolved.

I had the exceptional good fortune to be stationed in the courtyard on the third night, and I did a cursory search of the carriage that had come back _far_ too early. Gwen and Cullen stumbled out – clothing slightly awry, hair suspiciously out of place, Gwen’s mask clutched in her hand and Cullen’s lips stained red to match the smudged color on Gwen’s.

They both glanced around guiltily as they dashed into the manor from the carriage and it didn’t take a genius to deduce exactly what they were doing home so early.

“Who’s got the top floor hallway tonight?” Rocky asked Krem as I trotted over to report that I’d checked the carriage and cleared it to be rolled into the stable.

“Skinner,” our Lieutenant answered immediately.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Siren cheered from the balcony above us. “She won’t hold back any punches when she tells the story.”

“Do you think the rooms are soundproofed?” Squirrel called down from the rooftop over the main part of the house.

“We’ll find out,” Stitches yelled from somewhere at the back of the building.

Thirty minutes later, Siren appeared over the edge of the balcony again. “Hey Squirrel!”

“Hey what!” the elven scout’s head appeared over the peak in the roofline.

“Definitely not soundproofed!”

There was a long, hooting sort of cackle heard from the roof, then a great cacophony of shingles breaking and debris falling off the roof, a muted curse, and then another, longer laugh.

“Did _Squirrel_ just fall off the roof?” one of Rocky’s sappers – Chanter, I thought – asked from the corner of the building closest to the gate.

“You damn clutzy fool,” Stitches’ voice ghosted over the building. “Are you drunk? The Void’s gotten into you? You said a roof was no different than a tree, and here you are on you stupid face on the damn ground like a fucking-“

“Sounds like it,” Krem chuckled from his post at the front door. “Probably wants an excuse to go inside to listen.”

“NO. You get your stupid ass back on the damn roof and do your bloody job. You’re _fine._ ”

I wasn’t alone in having to fight to stifle a laugh as Stitches’ tirade continued – still audible, if barely – on the back side of the building. Daft was perched on another portion of the roof, and was just barely visible to me – both hands covering his face, shoulders hunched, and seeming to keep silent from force of will alone.

I wrapped my hand around my sword hilt and swept my face clear. I didn’t know if the sword’s enchantment worked that way, but I’d take whatever help I could get.

An hour or two later, as we prepared to swap posts, the door behind Krem cracked open. I couldn’t hear what was said to my Lieutenant, but I could hear his replies.

“What?”

“No.”

“Ha! Still no.”

“Listen, you tell him he takes his post just like everybody else and accept the fact everybody gets a shitty assignment sometimes.”

“No! Maker’s mustache, the idiot can’t sit watch with plugged ears. Just because it’s called _watch_ doesn’t mean he can do it deaf.”

“No.”

“No.”

“If I have to come in there and force him to sit in his post I am going to whip his ass six ways from Summerday and _then_ I’m going to tell the Chief he refused a post. And _then_ I’m going to report a gap in security to the Inquisitor, and specify that hallway was left unattended. What do you think the Inquisitor will do to somebody who leaves Gwen unguarded when she’s _obviously_ distracted?”

“That’s what I thought. And where are you supposed to be? Right. Next change is at midnight, and I can promise you I’ll know where you – and he! – end up.”

The door slid shut and Krem turned his back on it, seeming determined to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Who didn’t want to listen to his Ma getting-“

“First,” Krem interrupted Siren’s question from the balcony, “we’re not in Skyhold and she’s our charge. We’re not talking about what she’s doing, especially at the top of our lungs, _outside_. Second, you have a watch to keep that can’t be accomplished by looking at _me_.”

Siren screwed her face up into a caricature of a frown but went back to her post.

I sidled up to Krem after I finished another patrol route from the road to the carriage house to the stable and then around the courtyard.

“Wilder?”

“Wilder.”

“Poor sod.”

“Keep walking, Twitch.”

“Sure thing, Lieut.”

 

*

 

There was nothing else of any interest to happen on the trip. The Chargers were asleep – letting the larger force of Inquisition soldiers run the security while our delegation was all in one place – when Gaspard’s torture chamber was found and the undead released from within. We didn’t even _hear_ about that one until that afternoon, when Squirrel noticed the corpses being dragged out and burned. Krem and Dalish ended up folding origami with Gwen on the fifth night, and came back with little paper cranes for all of us. I was pretty sure it was meant mockingly, since it was bitterly cold that night and they’d clearly spent it warm and happy with Gwen in the Inquisitor’s chambers.

Lucky stiffs.

The morning we woke up and prepared to leave was the sort that promised snow. The ride back to Skyhold was threatening to be a long, shitty, snowy, frigid, miserable haul.

It ended up being far worse.


	42. The Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chargers spearhead the assault on a rift encountered en route back to Skyhold, and our protagonist falls.
> 
> WARNING FOR GRAPHIC INJURY

It was probably inevitable that our long run of easy work would come to a horrible, seething, murderous end. We were mercenaries, after all.

It was snowing and bitterly cold on the trip back to Skyhold. There was no singing, no happy dance-step to our march. We had a specific pattern to our patrols to make sure no one was lost in a sudden squall, and scouts were required to travel in groups – no one was allowed to wander off alone. We discarded all of our tents but two and crammed in at night in a vain attempt to keep warm; Gwen was a tyrant about checking our feet and hands every morning but nobody in the Inquisition lost any fingers or toes from the cold.

In Thedas, that was a near miracle in and of itself.

We were coming up on the crossroads that marked a day and a half’s journey to reach Skyhold when Squirrel suddenly appeared, alone and winded, to report to Krem.

“Demon,” she panted. “Rage. Only saw one. Probably at least two. Snow’s all melted and thrown about. Daft, Squire, and Fleur are looking for the source. Suspect maleficar, since we were just through here and there was no rift.”

“Run back and report to the Inquisitor directly,” Krem ordered, and yanked his sword free from the thin bit of ice that had rimmed the scabbard. “Chargers!”

We fell in behind him immediately, heading to the crossroads. We were a big enough force to hold the road against a maleficar for a short while at least, and if we drew their attention, the Inquisitor and her team would have an easier time wrecking our adversary. If it was a rift, we needed to secure the crossroads. And either way, the more noise we made the safer our scouts became, and the more likely they could find their way to us in short order.

There were a dozen of us together in the front of the column that day, with Cullen’s soldiers ranging around and to the rear. I glanced around as we rode, taking a quick headcount and mental role call, and noticed Hawke and Dalish riding quickly in our wake.

It was hard not to get a feeling of invincibility, with not one mage _but two_ at our backs, with another _four_ being summoned and sure to arrive shortly with the cavalry. Part of the reason the Chargers were so successful was the hidden strength of Dalish, but to get Hawke, too?

If it had been a maleficar summoning the demons, the fight would have been a short, nasty little footnote to an otherwise boring endeavor for the Chargers.

Instead, it was a rift.

We crested the hill to look down into the hollow that housed the crossroads and had just enough time to take in the entire scene before the demons populating the little valley turned to meet us.

The five – five! – rage demons that surrounded it had other brothers in the woods, if the tracks in the snow were any indication. It was the three – _three_ – terrors seeming to bicker directly under the pulsating green tear in the fabric of reality that made my breath catch in my throat.

We’d been making as much noise as we could. There was no pulling back to regroup; we had to draw the rage demons that might be in the woods into the crossroads to protect the scouts. Krem never hesitated; he plunged into the mass of demons with all of us barely a step behind.

He was knocked immediately off his horse by some noxious projectile from one of the terrors and landed with short cry of pain onto a hunk of rock hidden in the snow. I reined my horse around and leapt off, slapping its hindquarters to send it racing back up the hill the way we came. I reached down, Krem’s hand snagged mine, and I heaved him to his feet. All around us, Chargers dropped off their horses to support the Lieutenant.

Behind us, then, just barely audible over the hill, came Commander Cullen’s call to arms before the roar of the Inquisitor echoed against the trees. Her words were indistinguishable, but the effect on our morale was immediate.

“You are _so fucked,_ ” Meck told the rage demon that was baring down on him. “You don’t even _know_ the shitstorm you have coming for you.” He swung his hammer in a wide swipe from his side, timing it to coincide with the demon’s own slash at his face. He caught the beast where its ribs would be just as its talons would have raked his face. Instead, they were thrown off target as the entire monster was heaved to the side by the impact. Sparks flew from Meck’s steel pauldrons as the claws danced across the metal. “Get me if you can, I’m just the _appetizer_.”

I yelled for Siren to swivel right, noticing she had her back to the hillside we’d just come down from. She did so without arguing, giving Hawke and Dalish line of sight on the rage demon she had drawn. He was immediately hit four or five times by _something_ fast moving and magical and then dropped into a puddle of ooze that quickly evaporated off the snow.

Krem pushed my shoulder, and I let the pressure topple me into the snow and rolled away. The ground opened where I’d stood and a terror leapt out, slashing the place now occupied by my Lieutenant’s shield. I slashed at its legs from the ground and then rolled again, coming to my feet with my back to Krem’s before swiveling to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the ‘Vint. We weren’t trying to kill the damn thing – just keep it occupied and not let it kill anybody until the Inquisitor arrived – which made the job far easier than it normally would have been.

Another blast of magic somewhere to our left sent three rage demons tumbling through the air towards the rift, clawing at the ground ineffectually and sending clouds of snow boiling up around them as they fought to regain their feet and return to the fight.

We didn’t have long to wait for the cavalry to arrive. Adaar’s monster of a horse charged down the hill, the nine members of her team barreling down around her. Bull peeled off to direct our withdrawal and started sending pairs into the woods to find the three scouts who hadn’t appeared yet. The Inquisitor’s arrival caused the rift to stutter and start spitting out more demons, and then true chaos reigned.

Hawke stood near the top of the hill, lobbing fireballs with pinpoint accuracy, waiting until packs of demons stood far enough away from the defenders to avoid friendly fire. Solas stood with him and Dalish, as Dorian darted down closer to the demons and started controlling the flow of the battle with fear and fire. When demons were grouped enough for Hawke to drop a fireball in their midst, it was thanks to Dorian’s crowd control. Vivienne, much to my surprise, launched directly into the fray, wielding an ethereal sword and dancing through the forms with far more grace than a person in _those_ clothes with _those_ shoes should have been able to manage in the knee-deep, churned-up snow.

The rest of the Inquisitor’s forces were harder to make out. Sera and Varric were arrayed closer to Dorian but still a few paces behind. Blackwall and Cassandra were blips of black and scarlet and blue as they determinedly beat the demons back towards the rift. Cole’s existence was only apparent by the brief explosions of demon blood and a flicker of darkness against the snow.

Hellen Adaar, the Inquisitor herself, had a blade the length of my arm extending from the bottom of a staff the size of the ones in use by Solas and Dorian, lengthening it to a size more suitable to her height. She was using the blade as much as she was wielding magic, twirling and slicing and spearing the demons she encountered, carving the demons up with brute strength and just enough magic to turn the blade white-hot.  Most of her energy was spent disrupting the rift, as she would pause and throw her left hand towards the spluttering tear and cause it to dance and the demons around it to rear back in pain. Through it all, she seemed to know exactly where her team was at all times, and would throw bolts of electric blue towards them without so much as turning to face them; I assumed the energy was healing in nature, as everyone it hit would suddenly stand up straighter and fight harder.

All of this was visible in the moments it took for the Inquisitor to take over the battle as the Chargers worked to withdraw and set up a second line between the rift and the rest of the Inquisition delegation who was just cresting the hill above us.

I had just reached Meck’s side, pivoted to fall into place between him and Squirrel – who was facing the rift and lofting arrow after arrow into every demon that came into range – when my luck ran out.

The ground opened in front of me, and as I threw myself back and away, a terror demon swiped one taloned hand across my abdomen.

I dodged all of them but one. I got out of range of every one of those fucking claws _but one,_ and damnit if it didn’t only take one to kill me.

He split the dwarven leather I’d carefully maintained for the previous decade right up the middle, and cleanly sliced through my abdomen to free the coils of gut beneath.

I had pushed backwards in an attempt to dodge and hit the ground before the actual pain and realization struck; there was one glorious moment while I was airborne wherein I wasn’t sure he’d gotten me, and I could just be grateful that it had popped up in front of me and not the lighter-armored Squirrel.

The wind rushed out of me when I landed, and the force split the wound open further. The pain hit, and I gasped in against the almost burning sensation of cold hitting the inside of my abdomen. I planted my sword tip-down in the snow and used both hands to hold my armor together over the bits of me that weren’t supposed to see the light of day. I sucked in a better breath, and focused on pushing back shock, maintaining consciousness, and pretending that the hole in my gut didn’t hurt. If I could forget twenty years of life, forgetting some pain couldn’t be that hard, could it?

He hadn’t gone deep; I was bleeding, of course, but there was no arterial damage. I had a major vessel in my gut, I knew that much from human anatomy a lifetime ago in a different world, but this was a mostly superficial bleed. The lower aorta hadn’t been scratched, so this would be a slow death. I might have days to go. But wasn’t that the way gut wounds worked?

As the realization settled in alongside the cold, and Meck swatted the terror demon away and into range of Squirrel’s arrows, I heard a voice at the hilltop behind us screaming.

“NO!”

I tipped my head back in the snow to look up and behind me and vaguely, upside-down and blurry, make out Gwen dropping off Josephine’s horse starting to struggle through the snow towards me. The rift was still open – I’d just been disemboweled by a terror demon for fuck’s sake – but she was an emergency nurse who was acting on her training. My immediate area was clear, so she was coming down to try to stop the bleeding. Fantastic, headstrong asshole of a woman.

“Don’t let her come down here,” I called to Squirrel, who risked a glance away from the terror down at me and then up to where Gwen was stumbling down the hill.

“Hawke’s on it,” she replied, gruffly, and went back to the grim work of avenging me. I lifted up to see between my feet to where the terror demon had been knocked down and punctured by easily a dozen arrows already, and managed to look just as Meck left the ground with his hammer poised above his head. I looked back towards Gwen, comfortable in the knowledge that the demon who got me was about to be smashed into a paste.

Gwen was also currently airborne, as Hawke had slapped his staff onto his back and charged laterally across the hill to intercept her and whelm her into a snow bank. She landed with an undignified squawk and immediately began thrashing. I couldn’t see much but snow flying and Hawke’s legs struggling to keep purchase, his feet scrabbling as Gwen flailed and complained.

I settled in the snow to watch Hellen close the rift. I wouldn’t get another chance, after all.

“I can’t stand aside and watch another man die!” I heard Gwen yell as the cold seeped into my gut, spread along my spine, and sent tendrils into my arms and legs. The Inquisitor threw out her left hand and a stream of green sputtering flame connected her with the tear in the sky. The intensity of the light dipped the rest of the world into comparative darkness, so all that was visible was the blazing outline of Hellen Adaar against the shifting malevolence of the Fade. Then the light crackled and surged, and the rift sealed with a deafening burst of energy.

The world surged back into view, and my eyes met those of Squirrel’s. She was watching me, not the rift; there was anger and sorrow and pain in her eyes. She took a step towards me, hand out, and moved as if to kneel in the snow beside me. Her gaze snapped up to something over my shoulder and she gave me a look of what could have been hope before heeding Bull’s call to form up and be counted. As she glided out of my line of sight, Gwen appeared at my left, stumbling over to drop gracelessly to the snow beside me.

“Hey Ma,” I managed before coughing. Maker, but the air was cold. She was searching the snow for something, and I wondered if she could feel the enchantment on my sword. Andraste knew I never had. I cast about for something to say once I realized she was just looking for an unsullied patch to roughly cleanse her hands with. “This is a shitty way to go, what?”

She shook her head silently, tears resolutely blinked back, and scrubbed her hands with snow until they were red and raw. Then she used the backs of her hands to move my hands away from the almost surgical incision across my gut.

In a move that struck me as denial in its purest form, she began to carefully arrange my guts back into place.

There’s no nerves in your intestines that sense touch like your skin does, but they absolutely sense pressure and pain and her actions felt like I was cramping. It was beyond odd, the way the feeling and the knowledge didn’t match up. I couldn’t help but watch as she worked; I felt like I was removed from my body already, that I was watching somebody else get put back together.

“That’s not going to work,” I told her, trying to be gentle. I was too cold to try to raise the energy to bat her hands away, and she’d just call somebody over to hold me down and the entire episode would get dramatic. “Once they’re out, they’re out.”

“Bullshit,” she answered, and the matter-of-factness of her tone was a bit surprising. I expected her to be half hysterical. She didn’t see this shit all the time like I did... it was the first time I’d seen my _own_ guts, but I’d watch this play out enough times in allies and enemies alike to know how the story ends. The pain came later, after the fever and the blackened peeling back of the skin, as if the gut wanted back outside now that it had once tasted freedom. She glanced up at me, and there was a frankness there I didn’t know how to process. Did she not care I was dying? Was she so far gone she didn’t see what was in front of her?

“I’ve seen enough babies born by the knife to know these bad boys can get stuffed back in. You just wait until Hellen gets here.”

_Spirit healer_. The words drifted in my head and I realized, with a jolt, that Hellen had been training with Anders for the last month. She hadn’t been able to seal up my face before, but Anders had without a second thought. Maybe-

“Hellen’s here,” the Inquisitor said just as soon as Gwen’s words had died on the air, and the Vashoth mage dropped to her knees beside Gwen, making the already diminutive woman look like nothing more than a child. “She’s running low, though.”

The little blossom of hope died in my chest, and I almost resented Gwen for giving it life to begin with. I was just a Charger. She could save a dozen people more important than me with the energy it would take to glue my sorry ass back together.

“I can-“ Gwen started to offer, cutting off my rapidly mood-shifting inner monologue.

“No,” Hellen refused whatever Gwen was about to say. “Better to be tired than to lose control. I know you’ll stand me back up if I hit the point of collapse. I’m not there yet.” She reached down and put her hands over Gwen’s, the smaller woman having rearranged my abdominal cavity and pressed the skin closed over it. Gwen slid her hands carefully free and then Adaar’s hands glowed vivid blue.

Andraste Blue, I mentally named the color. It was the color I saw when I’d come to Thedas. It was the color I saw in Anders’ eyes when he’d healed me. It was the color of Adaar’s hands now. And...

...and it was the color I saw flare in Hellen’s eyes as she focused on my gut. It was the color of the face of the woman who had been clinging to Gwen in the Exalted Plains, in the heartbeat between when I looked away and when my eyes focused on her. It was the color of the spirit whom I could suddenly see staring out at me from Hellen’s face, a gentle smile underneath a silencing finger pressed to her lips in a reminder.

_Spirit healer_.

Heat suddenly returned to my abdomen and spread along my spine. I was still cold – deathly cold – but the pain evaporated along with the worst of the chill. “Avoid infection and you’ll be okay,” the Inquisitor pronounced.

What?

“That’s my job,” Gwen chirped, her voice incongruously cheerful. “We’ll have you right as rain in no time.”

I didn’t trust my eyes, after what I’d just seen on Hellen’s face, so I didn’t want to look down at my exposed belly. I wasn’t sure if I’d see skin or intestine and I wasn’t sure what I would think either way. I tried to keep focused on Gwen’s face, instead. “I’m not dead?”

“Not dead,” the Chief said, bounding into view just over Gwen’s shoulder. “It was a near thing, but we managed to avoid any casualties.”

“Everyone’s alright?” the Inquisitor asked, wearily. “All patched up and good to continue?”

“Looks like,” the Iron Bull confirmed.

I let the Chief look me over as Hellen and Gwen quickly launched into an argument about Gwen’s attempt to enter the battle. I didn’t have any attention to spare for them; I was far too occupied cataloguing the Chief’s face. He pointedly looked at my abdomen, nodded, and then looked up to meet my eyes. Then, slowly, he raised one hand in a thumb’s up, and mouthed the words “You’re good.”

Then – only then – I looked down at the slice through my armor. My skin was the blinding white of an Irishman in winter, unblemished and whole.

I looked back up at the Chief and mouthed back, “What the fuck.”

He hunched a bit with a laugh he quickly disguised by reaching down to grab my hand and haul me to my feet. “Let’s get you out of the crossfire, man, up you go.” My fingers found my sword hilt, half-buried in the snow next to me, and I tucked the blade carefully behind my back to keep it from accidentally slicing Hellen or Gwen as the Chief pulled me free.

Cullen was striding over as I wobbled weakly on cold rubber legs, but I didn’t get a chance to do anything more than dodge out of his way before Siren and Grim had their arms around me and pulled my hands over their shoulders and helped me get away from my blood in the snow.

“Here, you’re gonna need this,” Bull said, holding a flask up to my face. Healing potions were a glorious luxury, and for once I felt no reticence in gulping down the expensive, blood-replenishing fluid. Strength immediately returned to my limbs, and if I was still a bit cold... well, I had been lying in the snow with my innards exposed. It was to be expected.

“Thanks, Chief,” I said. Siren and Grim made no move to put me down and I didn’t try to argue. I was only now in shock – shock that I was going to survive, which was honestly the best kind of shock there was.

I got heaved up onto my horse, my reins tossed to Dalish, and a blanket draped over my shoulders. Dalish led my horse back into some semblance of formation as I let it all happen, and tried to process what had just passed before my eyes.

_Spirit healer_. That woman who had been clinging to Gwen was a _spirit_. And now she was somehow a part of the Boss, and now Adaar could heal shit she hadn’t been able to before, and wasn’t that what a spirit healer was? Wasn’t that roughly Anders’ story?

Maker’s asscrack, what if the whole thing about him being an abomination in the game was just spin? Varric’s book, the Chantry manhunt, the entire corruption of Justice into Vengeance... what if none of it was real? What if all he was, was a spirit healer? What if that was the reason there weren’t any left? ...the Templars knew they were all arguable _abominations_?

What the fuck was Solona?

Gwen had seen that girl, that _spirit_ , Gwen had been _holding her_. Gwen knew. Whatever it was... Gwen knew. She was friends with Anders and she knew the entire Inquisition storyline from the damn game, she was a fucking fangirl, she _knew_. And if I’m the only other person who could see that spirit, then she would know what I was as soon as I asked.

If I wanted to know this, I had to come clean.

What a shitty, selfish reason to finally be honest with Gwen! I berated myself for most of the rest of the evening, until we pulled up to make camp and I was handed down from my horse by none other than the Iron Bull.

“You’re going to have to tell her, kid,” he said softly in between admonitions to keep warm and dry and let anyone know if I started feeling ill. “If you would have died today, I would have had to tell her, and that shit isn’t going to fly.”

“Why would you have had to tell her?” I countered after weakly agreeing, for the fourth time, that I would take it easy and avoid anything that might exacerbate my injury.

“She knows you two aren’t the only ones here,” he informed me. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, but they found a corpse wearing shoes like hers in the basement of Gaspard’s mansion. And another person built some weird musical instrument from her world that she was playing at the Ball, but his ass got killed too. She’s starting to worry she’s the only one who came here and lived, and you need to help her keep it together.”

He was actually tucking me into a bedroll now, in a tent otherwise – if temporarily – empty of other Chargers. It was overly solicitous and ridiculous, but it was an excuse to have this conversation in relative privacy.

“And I should do that how? Just walk up to her and burst out _hey I know it’s been almost a year but just in case I die you should know I grew up on your world too_?”

The Chief just shook his head. “I’m not telling you _how_ to do it, I’m telling you that _she_ needs you to do it.”

It cut too close to my inner turmoil for me to regard it without suspicion, and the Chief immediately saw it written across my face. He met my eyes and shrugged. “If you’re not going to do shit for yourself anymore because of some fucked up sense of guilt, at least do it for her.”

And then he slowly, deliberately, turned his back to me and walked out of the tent.

Giant horned asshole.

The reasons to tell Gwen were rapidly outnumbering the reasons to stay silent. She had the Inquisitor’s ear; she would be my best bet in getting the Inquisition to help find Ophelia. She was starting to believe she was the only earthling who had survived, and that was a strange sort of lonely. She’d already come through the grief that I’d not wanted to cause, and I didn’t need to tell her that she was probably a widow.

I could get somebody to fetch my phone from Denerim and she would help me keep it charged.

The only reason I had left to stay silent was cowardice; the fear that she’d hate me or be angry with me or the Chargers would reject me for keeping this quiet for so long.

That was rapidly becoming the one reason I wouldn’t listen to.

I had to tell Gwen.

The only question, now, was how.


	43. The Compass Where Self Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The full text of the conversation in the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just over 8K words; Budget some time.

We rolled into Skyhold the next day. I felt largely improved, but Gwen insisted on keeping me for observation, along with all the other Chargers who’d needed healing from Adaar after the skirmish at the crossroads. There were five of us, all told. Krem had gotten his shield arm broken while defending from a terror. Meck had taken three or four dozen minor nicks and cuts while defending my would-be corpse from further dismantling, not the least of which was a gaping hole between the bones of his ankle and his Achilles tendon caused by the same terror who’d sliced me open swiping at Meck’s feet. Daft had gotten thrown against a tree before we’d managed to draw the rage demons back to the crossroads, and his defense and recovery by the other scouts was the exact reason we’d all been forbidden from venturing out alone. He’d been knocked unconscious and would have been left for dead under the pile of snow that had fallen out of the tree to cover his body, if Squire and Fleur hadn’t been with him. He had a nasty concussion but otherwise was fine. Skinner was the fifth, with a split scalp and the top half of her ear nearly sliced through. The Inquisitor had managed to get her ear put back to rights, an ultimately cosmetic move that had won the elf over utterly. The Inquisitor had just been the Boss before, but now Skinner was a definite fan of Hellen Adaar, herself.

We were all walking and arguably well, but we were shuffled off to the infirmary regardless. When Gwen pushed open the door, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

It was like walking into a history book. The room was warmly lit, aired out and smelling faintly of alcohol and soap. The beds were covered in snowy white linen, carefully turned back to expose precisely fluffed pillows. At five of the beds were simple homespun clothes and foot lockers for us to stash our gear while we were in residence. Half-casks of water were lined up behind a row of screens off in one corner, and each one steamed gently in the slightly chilled air. It was like nothing I had ever seen in Thedas – but it was exactly the sort of thing you saw in historical documentaries back on Earth.

“What the-“ I breathed before managing to shut myself up.

“Wash up,” Gwen instructed briskly, indicating the casks to the side. “There’s a change of clothes for you on your pillow, so you don’t wreck my bedding with arms and armor. The healers here are Edmun and Jamy, they’ll help you get settled in.”

Gwen continued on with orders for the healers and an admonishment for us to not give them any trouble, which the others met with an amused groan. I was too busy staring at the tiny piece of Earth Gwen had recreated in an out-of-the-way corner of Skyhold.

I tried to banter with the rest of them but my heart wasn’t into it. Gwen dragged Krem off with the weak excuse of taking a better look at his arm, while the other four of us sank into baths that were just a touch too hot.

...something else I hadn’t experienced in Thedas.

“This is amazing,” Skinner murmured as she sunk into the gently bubbling water until little more than her nose was still visible.

“Maker, I should have gotten hurt sooner,” Meck agreed.

Daft had no words, but sunk into the water with a contented sigh.

I tried my best to relax, but it was all just a little too jarring for me.

I had distanced myself from Earth as much as possible.

Gwen had brought as much of it with her as she could manage.

It was hard to reconcile our differences while coming to grips with how very similar we ultimately were.

I got dressed mechanically in the light drawstring pants and pullover shirt that had been left on the foot of the bed for me. I crawled into the bed, pulled the blanket up to my chin, and tried to ignore the sensation that I was in an old-timey tuberculosis sanitarium. Nothing horrible was going to happen to me here, it was _Gwen’s infirmary_. It just looked like a scene out of a horror film, that’s all.

She and Krem emerged from a side room – which I was then told was a _water closet_ and I just nodded grimly because _of course that’s what she called the privy_ – and stood at her desk over lamplight and argued about dates good-naturedly for a bit.

I pressed further into my bedding. One of the healers – Jamy, I presumed, since Edmun sounded like the man’s name – dropped a downy sort of blanket on me, and I surrendered to the feeling of bone-deep warmth and overwhelmingly odd memories of home. I snuggled the blanket up to my chin and willed myself to sleep.

 

*

 

I did not wake on my own the next morning, for the first time in ages.

They brought food for breakfast, and dragged me out of a deep sleep to eat some of the hot fruit and oats that was a luxury on the road and a staple at Skyhold. There was a steaming mug of tea that I tried to sip on but had to wait until it had cooled to room temperature before I could stomach it. I couldn’t believe I’d ever been cold; everything was warm, in the almost-too-much sense.

I thought that might be a very bad sign, but the thought vanished as I rolled over and went back to sleep.

“Twitch?”

It was the healer from the night before, Jamy. She was looking at me with open concern. I rolled onto my back and sat up a little. “Yeah?”

“How do you feel?”

“Warm,” I admitted, and then snuggled back under the blanket. “I was so cold when it happened, I don’t know. It’s good to be so warm.”

She pressed her hands to my cheeks, and they were little frozen death fingers. I withdrew deeper into the blankets. “Maker’s taint, your hands are cold.”

“Stay here,” she said over her shoulder to someone out of my line of sight. “I’ll go get Gwen.”

“She was headed to a meeting with the Inquisitor,” the voice beyond replied. “You might have to ask around a bit.”

“Thanks, will do,” she replied while walking away.

I shrugged and went back to sleep.

It could have been mere minutes or many long hours later when I was shaken awake again, this time by a slightly winded and very worried Gwen. The sun was casting narrow shadows on the floor, so I suspected it was roughly noon. That was later than I’d slept in years, but I’d never had my gut slashed open by a demon before, so I was already treading new ground.

Gwen pressed her wrist to my forehead, and then ran it around to my neck. She dug my hands out of the blanket and squeezed my wrists until I could feel my pulse batter at her fingertips.

“Have you been eating and toileting normally?” she asked, suddenly. It wasn’t what I expected. Maybe ‘hello’ would come first, or even ‘how do you feel’ would have been more reasonable.

“Have I been what?”

Krem was hovering over her shoulder, another worried nursemaid. “Did you shit yesterday or today,” he rephrased gruffly, like I just hadn’t understood the question.

I snorted. “Yeah. What kind of questions is that?”

“Your guts were hanging out,” Gwen reminded me, the imagery a bit jarring. “I like to know they’re working right.”

“Oh,” I managed. It’s like my mind was running slow.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Krem scoffed. I scowled at him.

“You pass any weird colors? It look like tar or blood?”

“Maker, no,” I laughed. That, I was sure I would have noticed. It was the right answer as far as Gwen was concerned; a look of relief washed over her face and she reached into the pocket of her tunic like she was fishing around for something.

“Alright, this is probably just a secondary infection. Easy enough to handle.”

I settled into the bed and prepared for the next round of questions. Name and date of birth, and then if there were any known drug allergies, and I would say-

I would say-

Sweet mother Mary, she wasn’t going to ask that. We weren’t on Earth.

I struggled to clear away the fog on my brain and remember why this was important, what did I have to tell her, why would I need to tell her-

“Shit,” I heard myself say, once the memory finally fell into place. The word was in English. There was no turning back; I’d promised myself there was to be no more lying and this is where the buck would stop.

“Ma... Gwen, look. You can’t give me penicillin, I’m allergic. I’ll go into anaphylaxis.”

Maybe it was the room. Maybe it was the weird half-memory of horror films and sanitariums that made me think that since Gwen had built an American-looking med ward she would have been building American-type antibiotics. Maybe it was the fever, slowing me down. Maybe it was the Chief’s admonition to come clean sticking in my conscience.

Whatever it was, it was done now.

I watched as Gwen’s brow furrowed, then slowly slid up towards her hairline as her eyes widened with shock and a gradual sort of realization.

She stuttered a single-word question into five or six syllables, but eventually managed to gasp out, “What?”

“I know what that blue bag was,” I told her, “and it was definitely not the kind of thing you’d take to the office every day. Patrick probably had PTSD and used it as a bug-out bag, right? No way you didn’t have a major med kit in there. So since I know you have it here, and this is exactly the time you would use it, you have to know.” I stopped and caught my breath and then made sure I met her eyes. “Don’t. Give me. Penicillin.”

“What?” Krem breathed, an echo of Gwen’s own confusion. He knew the language, so it had to have been the words that threw him. Krem knew, now, too.

I searched his face for anger, for betrayal, for anything...

...and got only blank, wide-eyed surprise.

Gwen slowly sank down to sit on the side of my bed. She reached out with one hand and I took it, letting her twine her fingers through mine as she stared at me, stunned silent.

I squeezed her hand and waited. She squeezed back and her jaw started to work, although no sound came out. I couldn’t help but smile, and waited her out.

“Krem,” she said after a long few minutes of mental stumbling, “tell Jamy to fetch Anders. Then you and the other Chargers sit on the other side of the room and give Twitch and I a chance to talk. No interruptions.”

“But-“ Krem’s face was a simple protest, then – he wanted the story.

He just wanted the story.

For the first time, I allowed myself to believe that this whole quagmire might just turn out okay.

“Please,” Gwen added, softly.

Krem watched me for another moment, surprise and curiosity playing across his features, before nodding and turning away. “Jamy, a word, please? Gwen needs you to make another run.”

I turned my eyes back to Gwen, watched the thoughts swirl while she tried to pick her plan of attack, and I waited.

“Where were you born?” she asked, long after the door had swung shut behind Jamy. It was a great question, really; my answer would immediately set the stage for whether or not my story was plausible. I was glad the truth was no place she’d ever mentioned to any of the Chargers.

“Just outside Rochester, New York,” I answered. She sucked in a short breath and then seemed to be at a complete loss. The hand I held was rock solid but the other trembled violently.

“This is how I felt when I saw your damn shoes,” I confessed, trying to coax out a smile. “Take your time.”

Gwen seemed to focus on finding some calm – something I’d done more than once, which was endearing to see mirrored on her – and then she jumped over the next four or five questions I would have asked, if I was in her shoes.

“Why now?” she asked instead, as if the rest of my story didn’t matter now that she could believe it true. “Why did you wait until now?”

Bull’s words crept through my mind, and I decided to try to give the Chief some cover, in case he didn’t want Gwen to know he was in on the secret. I’d sworn to keep Cullen’s secret, as well, and that meant not giving Gwen reason to ask _who else knew_. “Beside from needing to avoid anaphylactic shock?” I asked, taking reassurance from the ghost of a smile that crossed her face and stalling half a second while I chose my next words. “I heard about the others, at the Winter Palace, and I...” I got ordered to come clean? Nope, think faster, asshole. “...I worried that you would start looking for more of us and maybe suspect me. I wasn’t ever going to say anything,” I confessed, the words escaping in a rush once I realized they were both the complete truth and a great way to diffuse her suspicion. “But then, the other day, when I thought I was dying... it didn’t seem right. I didn’t want you to find out after – or even suspect it – and never know. Infection is what kills people here, more often than not, and I’m not about to make the same mistake twice.”

There. All of it true, and not one word about Bull. I breathed out a sigh of pure relief as Gwen slowly nodded and took a few steadying sorts of breaths herself. Then, to my chagrin, she jumped back to the questions I’d expected before. “When did you come here?”

I’d never spoken the date, even when telling the story to Bull. It didn’t mean anything to anyone but Gwen and I, or the others like us. But it was burned into my memory, like it had to be seared into hers.

“Late in the afternoon of Friday, September the twenty-fifth, twenty-fifteen,” I told her and felt my eyes burn. Gwen tipped her head down and let tears spill down her cheeks. Had she ever said the day? I didn’t think she had. Maybe this was independent verification.

After a long time of her silently working to ratchet back tears, I found myself talking to fill the gap. “I didn’t want...” ...to be the one to tell you you’re a widow? No. Bad start. Try again. “I heard about the memory you got back after Adamant and I didn’t want to speak up, didn’t want to try to horn in on your grief. But I knew what you’d seen as soon as I heard you scream, even all the way in the ‘Rest as I was.”

There. It was the closest I would ever come to admitting to her I had kept my silence out of cowardice. She could fill in the spaces if she wanted.

“Where were you?” she whispered, and sniffed back the last of her tears to watch me as I spoke.

“The top of the Pru,” I told her, and then finally – _finally_ – I told the story the way it needed to be heard. “...waiting for my girlfriend with a ring in my pocket. I watched the smoke start boiling out the T stations and I knew... I just knew. She wasn’t ever coming. Then everyone stopped moving, like time stopped. And this... this woman, this blonde woman, said I could get another chance at another life if I just took Her hand. She would get me out of there, if I promised to do whatever I could to help Her Herald when she arrived. Her Herald would need acceptance, need help staying alive... she was from my world, somebody who would understand everything I had lost, but I would have years to wait before I met her. She was going to send me back far enough to keep people from looking for me. None of that made sense... until now.”

Gwen was nodding slowly, as if the little details were lining up. I was suddenly _thrilled_ that I hadn’t been anywhere near her when the memory struck. She wouldn’t have to ask around much to learn that I couldn’t have gotten my story from hers.

I shrugged as I remembered the rest of the story. “My other option at that point was going out the window, like the jumpers from the towers on 9-11.”

She shuddered and got a faraway sort of look in her eyes and then squeezed my hand again.

“When did you get here?”

It was so close to the first question, but I understood what she was getting at.

“The day after the Battle of Denerim,” I confessed, and felt another rush of tension escape my shoulders.

 _After_ the Blight. I wasn’t a Blight veteran. I hadn’t seen anything the rest of them had. I hadn’t survived darkspawn in the streets. I wasn’t a hero of that war. I hadn’t fought alongside Alistair and Solona.

“Plopped down right in front of The Pearl,” I continued when I still didn’t find any censure in her gaze. The confessions were getting easier the longer I went on. “I wandered around in a daze for days, but so did everyone else. I pretended to be struck dumb, like I couldn’t speak, and got taken in by the Chantry. That first day, I hid everything I’d brought with me – my phone, my keys, my wallet – in an alley, and did everything I could to blend in. I didn’t learn Kingspeak as quickly as you did, but eventually I could pass as just another victim of the Blight, somebody trying to start over. I trained with some of the templars in the Chantry-“ which was technically true, if a lie of omission by glossing over Hank and Brue, since that would lead to Ophelia, where I really wasn’t ready to go yet “-and eventually started making my living as a man-at-arms. I ventured out of Denerim for the first time when the news came that Hawke had killed the Arishok in Kirkwall.”

“Did you know?” she whispered. I realized she had her other hand wrapped around her chin and was watching me with eager eyes. “Did you know where you were, what was happening?”

She was so wrapped up in the story, I almost laughed. “Did I play Dragon Age?” Her eyes flew wide as she sat back with a little gasp and I couldn’t hide the laugh anymore. “Luckily, yes. Just the second game because... well. The reasons don’t matter. I knew enough. Cindy – that was my girlfriend – she was a nut for Inquisition, and I had gotten enough information from her to know the Chargers when I saw them forming. I knew they would take me to the Herald, and I signed on.”

That was true. I didn’t consider it until the words left my mouth, but that dream I’d had the night before I joined the Chargers... it was memory. Memory seeping up from where I’d left it to fester, bubbling out to kick me in the direction I needed to go. It reminded me that I hadn’t dreamed otherwise in ten stinking years, and now that Gwen and I were talking, I could ask her if she-

“How?” she asked, jarring me back into the moment.

“How what?”

“How did you sign on?”

Something else to come clean with. I tried not to smile but that just made the expression come off a bit oily. “Same way you pulled the doorknob off Cullen’s door when you got mad. Same way you healed up Lyal and Devon in record time. I decided it needed to happen, so it did.”

“Another good reason to keep it secret,” she said.

My heart leapt at the lack of guile on her face as she said it. She meant it! She really meant it! She thought there were good reasons to keep where I came from to myself. The upsurge of hope was almost painful. I worked to keep my face calm, and instead of throwing my arms up in elation, I merely shrugged. I had ultimately earned my spot, and it was important to keep that in mind – for both of us. “I still had to prove myself. All I did was make sure they gave me a chance. Regardless of who I was born, I’m a Charger now. I’m Twitch, and will be until I die.”

“Can I know?” she asked. I wasn’t sure what she meant, and I cocked an eyebrow at her, which prompted her to tack on, “Your first name, I mean.”

The name on my birth certificate wasn’t something I’d given out often. Ophelia knew it. One or two of the Chargers knew it. The list was short.

But this was _Gwen_. “Will,” I told her, and then gave her the better answer: “William McIntire.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and gave my hand another squeeze.

I tried to tell her there was more, I wanted to tell her I’d met Alistair and Solona and Sten and the whole Tabris clan. I knew that story would mean so much to her, and then maybe we could start telling stories and this whole horrible escapade could be behind us and I could ask her why the _fuck_ she screamed that Mulan line at that dwarf.

But the door burst open and Anders shot across the room to where Gwen was seated sedately on the side of my bed.

“What’s happened?”

“Twitch has developed a secondary infection,” Gwen answered, switching flawlessly into Common. I didn’t know if Anders had raced down here for me or for Gwen, but I liked to think it was maybe for us both.

The apostate stood next to Gwen, dropped his hands to where my abdomen was hidden under the heavy blanket, and that Andraste Blue light flared up beneath his palms. Everything that was warm became cold, everything that was cold went warm, and then I was completely temperature neutral. The fog cleared from my brain and I was suddenly incredibly thirsty. I remembered the tea from that morning and was pleased to find it, cold but untouched, on a little tray nearby.

“Not dead again?” I asked Gwen.

“You will live to fight on another day,” Anders answered.

I thanked him, but before I could get more than a word out, Gwen was dropping my hand to grasp Anders’ and tug him away from the bed. “I need to talk to Anders,” she told me, “and Krem is going to jump all up in your shit.”

I swallowed back the smile that greeted the idea that she was going to start using countless earthisms on me. This had gone the absolute best way it possibly could. “I’ll be back, alright? We’ll talk more later,” she promised as she pressed Anders towards the door and then followed on his heels.

“If you want,” I answered easily. “I won’t say no, Ma.”

She frowned at me – _uh oh_ – at the diminutive, but then she was gone after leveling a stern “Be nice” at Krem.

Krem nonchalantly reminded her that Chargers, by default, had no history before they became Chargers, and then crossed the room to take the spot on the side of my bed she had just vacated.

“You’re from her world. You know her language because you’re from her world.”

It was not a question, or even an accusation. It was a simple statement of the truth as he understood it.

“Yeah, Krem. I-“

The door swung open and Grim started to enter the room.

“Fetch the Chief,” Krem instructed the taciturn man. "Twitch has a story for him."

Grim cocked a surprised eyebrow in our Lieutenant’s direction, but immediately disappeared to do Krem’s bidding.

“You told the Chief once,” Krem continued, slowly, as he turned back to me, “that _it’s like Twitch didn’t exist before that alley_. That stuck with me. Stuck with him. He spent a long time trying to put it all together for you.”

“I know. I told him I’d forgotten, Krem, and I had. When I joined the Chargers, I didn’t know who I was.”

I was going to keep going – now that I’d started talking, I wasn’t ever going to shut up – but the door popped open again and Chargers started pouring into the infirmary. The very last one through the door, pulling it firmly shut behind him, was the Iron Bull.

Jamy stood, trembling, at Gwen’s desk.

“We need the room,” Chief told her.

“I currently have Charge of the infirmary,” she answered, with a tone that stopped the susurrus chattering of the assembled Chargers and drew every eye. “As such, it is not in your authority to remove me. I will remain here, as while they may be in your employ they are currently in _my care_.”

Bull froze and gazed up her, seeming to be surprised at the reply. He opened his mouth to answer – knowing the Chief, probably an apology and a rephrasing – when the petite brunette took a steadying breath and then put both knuckles on the desk. “I will stay out of your way but I will _not_ leave. If you cannot stomach that, you may send for Lady Gwen.”

The Chief nodded. “Got it.”

Jamy returned the nod, took another breath, and then darted for the water closet, shutting the door most of the way behind her. It sounded to me like she immediately began cleaning.

“Our Ma knows how to pick ‘em, eh?” Meck observed, although it was unclear whether the warm tones of affection in his voice were for Gwen or for Jamy.

“I hear you had something to tell Gwen that you might need to tell the rest of us,” the Chief said, launching right into the meat of the matter.

“I did. I do,” I replied.

Everybody crowded around, sitting five and six to a bed, leaning against the wall, pulling up stools, or in the case of the sappers, sitting cross-legged under the beds to either side of the one I was now firmly trapped in.

“Do you want the long story or just the important bits?”

“Give them the bottom line,” Krem advised. “We can get into the details once everybody’s come to grips with the news.”

I nodded as a concerned silence fell over the group. I looked around me at the dozens of faces of the Chargers. Elves and dwarves and humans and one cyclops qunari. People I was close to, people I was merely acquainted with, but all of them people I had lived with, people I would have died for.

They all got to decide what they thought of me. I could only give them the truth and hope.

“I am from the same world Gwen is.”

The gasps were almost comical. If I hadn’t been mentally preparing myself to get shanked, I might have laughed. As it was, I flinched back into my bedding and braced for impact.

Instead, I got silence.

Siren looked horrified. Dalish, angry. Daft, intrigued. The sappers bore identical blank expressions of patient expectation as they settled in to wait for the full story. Krem and Bull, utterly impassive.

It was too much to try to process. I shook my head and launched into a story I had once intended to never tell.

“I made myself forget,” I started, putting up my hands to beg a delay in the protest that I imagined was brewing, from Siren and Skinner and Dalish if no one else. “I’ve got the weird willpower thing that she does, and Opie – you all remember Opie – told me about it in Denerim. She told me she knew when I really wanted something because she would feel my will, like I was some kind of demon. So she watched me, for years. And once I knew it was something I could do, I decided to try it out – on myself. I willed myself to forget who I had been, where I’d come from, what my purpose was in Thedas. I left Denerim right after that, so I wasn’t around the only person who knew even a portion of my real story. I’m not sure Opie will ever forgive me for that.

“All of the story you know about me from Denerim on is true. Opie and Alistair and Highever and the trip to Amaranthine – all of it, true. The story of my being from the Blight wasn’t one I started... I let everybody believe it, I encouraged its spread, but I didn’t start it. I know that doesn’t mean much. I know about the Blight... I know about a lot of things, because I read the same “book” Gwen read.”

The outrage was real, then, and expressed by an overwhelming majority. I flinched again. This was not going well.

“I’d forgotten it by the time I met you. I don’t know the ending. What little I know came from my girlfriend, Cindy. She had all the same information Gwen did, and used to natter on about Cullen this and Solas that and _Maker_ did she have a thing for Krem.”

My Lieutenant blushed crimson and some of the less furious Chargers laughed – mostly scouts like Daft and Squire – but I got almost no reaction from anyone else. I swallowed thickly.

“Cindy... Cindy died. That day. The day Gwen and I came here. And I... I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to remember any of it. Andraste – because it was, definitely, Andraste, who brought us here – She told me that the other people She’d been sending here were dying, and She needed to send Gwen help. So She was sending me back ten years so I could hide from the people who wanted to kill us. That didn’t mean anything ten years ago, but now?”

A few nods, then. Siren didn’t seem quite as pissed. Skinner and Dalish, if anything, were edging closer to _livid_ with every word.

“So I ended up in Highever, with no memory of anything before the day I landed in Denerim, which was the day of the parade through the streets to celebrate the victory at Fort Drakon. I met Siren there, and I worked. I knew I was supposed to be doing something else, but I didn’t know what. And then Krem was in the tavern and the bell rung. I brushed it off and went to bed and I dreamed that night. It is the only time since I’ve been here – ten years, almost – that I have dreamed.”

“You don’t dream?” Dalish cut in, sharply. “At all?”

I shook my head, _no_. “And that night wasn’t really a dream, not the way you think of it. It was the memory of the Chargers, of Cindy telling me about the Chargers, about Krem. I knew this person, this name, and I knew that this group would lead me to where I needed to be. I didn’t remember the destination yet, but I knew this was the right road.”

I sucked in a long breath, knowing full well I was stalling. The Chief didn’t know what I was about to tell him, and I was sure it would be the first nail in my coffin.

“I didn’t remember what Opie had told me about will, I didn’t remember I was different, so at the time I didn’t know I was doing it. But I woke up in the morning and ran down to camp and I... I think I willed Krem and the Chief into giving me a chance.”

Total. Fucking. Silence. Nobody so much as _blinked_. I had more than six dozen eyes boring right into me.

“And then I was in and you all know the story from there. I did not know I was special, I swear on my life. Every word I ever said to you was the absolute truth, until the day we met Gwen.”

They were at least blinking, now; I wasn’t being pinned to my mattress by their stares anymore. The worst was Grim. He closed his eyes and, almost gently, tipped his face away.

As if he was ashamed of me.

God, it burned.

“Adaar – the Inquisitor – came down and got on her horse and I saw Gwen’s shoes and all of a sudden... all of a sudden it all came rushing back.”

“I remember that,” One whispered. I felt rather than saw all eyes shift to her; I was studying the wring of my hands in the top sheet. “Maker, I think I was looking at your face at that exact moment. You went as pale as this bedding.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I had my task – I had to make sure she was safe, I had to make sure she was protected and accepted. People like us were dying, somewhere, and I didn’t know where. I didn’t know why, or by whom. And then shit just started happening. The Chief sent me to watch her and she was talking about her family and her... her husband’s name is the same as my middle name. It messed me up. She woke up and didn’t know why we were here, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I had come here knowing full well why, I knew exactly what had happened to our world and why I was chosen. Why didn’t she?”

It was getting easier now. They were nodding, for the most part; even Grim. Dalish and Skinner and – I could just barely see her, between Meck and Daft – Squirrel still seemed _so fucking angry_ but the sappers were starting to shift and maybe, just maybe, we were going to get through this.

“And then, right then, Haven is attacked. She remembered the story, she remembered the attack, she knew how to save us. I was relieved – but also confused, since I didn’t know this part of the story. I was just as lost as the rest of you, in that sense. I could understand her, though, and that’s what I regret the most. I should have-“

“Story first,” the Chief cut in. “Get through the story and then worry about the commentary.”

I nodded. “Right. Sorry. I... I could understand her. But I wanted her to live, _needed_ her to live. And everything I was thinking – that she was all alone, that we should take her in – you guys suggested, you guys discussed, you guys decided. And by that point, I knew that it was my doing. I’d remembered that Opie said I could will things to happen, I’d forgotten my own name for years, so I knew that it worked. But I honestly thought Bull would split me in half lengthways if he knew I was doing it.”

Grim snorted, Krem nodded, and the Chief – the Chief actually shrugged. Fuck if that wasn’t chilling.

“So we get her through the snow to the camp. I grabbed her bandages off her back and Krem threw her over his shoulder and then I suggest we leave her in the tent and everything just _works_. And then she... she told us that story. About what war looked like in our world, and I-“

Squirrel, suddenly, gasped. Air hissed through her teeth and her hands flew up to her face and I didn’t get my eyes snapped up to her in time to see the actual expression she was covering. Daft put a soft hand on her shoulder and she started shaking her head.

“I knew she had forgotten for good reason,” I said, feeling the conclusion before realizing this was where I could stop. “She didn’t remember what we’d seen. She didn’t remember her husband dying, her life ending. And maybe she needed to forget that. Maybe she wouldn’t have been able to get us out of Haven if she’d remembered. And I... I couldn’t tell her. I could _not_ be the one to tell her she was probably a widow, because I wouldn’t be able to give her the information, the closure she needed. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t make everything worse. By the time she found out the truth? That wasn’t very long ago. I told her today because... because the wound I got was feverish, and I didn’t know if she had the medicine from our world to treat it. And if she did... I can’t take it. I get a horrible reaction from it, and my throat closes and... and I didn’t want her to give me something that I knew would kill me. I obviously didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want her to find out after the fact that she had inadvertently killed somebody from her own world.”

They were all silent for a moment.

“How...” Daft started. He stopped when people swung around to stare at him – glare at him, in some cases – and swallowed before starting again. “How would she find out you were from her world?”

“I knew,” the Chief admitted, before I could even open my mouth to attempt an answer.

All eyes swung to him and suddenly I was off the hook.

“Come on now, you think I wouldn’t realize shit was weird? I didn’t know all of it, but I figured it out. You’re wounding me. I’m _good_.”

“He did figure it out,” I agreed, trying not to laugh when Krem chuckled ruefully and shook his head. “Threatened to throw me off the wall once, in a related incident. And that’s part of the reason he kept me here when everybody else went back to Haven.”

More nods, then. Squirrel’s hands came down – she was brushing tears off her cheeks and seemed to be looking anywhere but _at me_.

“I’ve been trying, very hard,” I continued, drawing attention off Bull, “to not tell any lies. I’ve been skirting the truth and the Chief has stepped in a couple times to save me when my mouth was stupid. But I did not want to lie, to any of you. And what I was saying before, what I regret the most? It was not at least letting her know I spoke her language. I could have done her a lot of good, done all of us a lot of good, right at the beginning by translating for her and helping her learn. I didn’t, and that was dumb.”

Everybody was nodding, then. At last, a conclusion we could agree with: Twitch was dumb.

Dalish pushed through the people between her and I, then. Everybody shifted to let her through – Grim leaned back, Cake pulled his legs under the bed, One leaned over into Two’s lap – and she stopped at the head of my bed. She extended her hand, pointed one finger at my face, and a flare of white light went off like a flash bulb. I blinked my eyes clear and squinted up at her, but didn’t move otherwise.

She nodded once. “Not a demon,” she pronounced grimly, and then made her way back out of the pack.

“I could have told you that,” Bull chided, but the act – both her magical attack and my lack of reaction – seemed to settle things for a lot of people.

“You’re a fucking bastard,” Skinner announced. I nodded but didn’t try to argue. “You’re _our_ fucking bastard, and you’re still one of the only shems I don’t actively want to kill. But you could have saved the people Gaspard killed if you’d come clean sooner. That Viddathari girl lost her eyes because of you. People died for your cowardice.”

“I know,” I replied softly, meeting her eyes. “I have to live with that. And believe me, it’s not easy. Not dreaming does me no good if I can’t sleep.”

She pointed a finger at me – both in warning, it seemed, and in acknowledgement of my acceptance of guilt – and then eased backwards with a nod.

Squirrel surprised me by being the next one to speak. “We were in the tent, in the snow, after Haven,” she said, staring at the foot of my bed, rocking back and forth slightly on the balls of her feet, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. “I asked what everyone would do if they woke up someplace out of a legend. And you... you made us all stop and think about it differently. We realized that it would be terrifying, it would be paralyzing, it would be _terrible_. And all that time...” She stumbled to a stop, and Daft put another hand to her shoulder but she shrugged it off. “That thing that she remembered, that made her scream like she did... you were _there_ for that. That was... that was your reality, too.”

I could only nod.

“What did you see?”

“I was in a tall tower in the city,” I answered, trying hard not to fish for pity and just give her the honest truth. “I saw the bombs go off. I saw the smoke. I saw people dying. And then time stopped, and I saw a blonde woman who offered me another chance at life. I took it.”

Silence again. This time, everybody was waiting for Squirrel instead of me.

Her head jerked, twice, three times, in a rough sort of nod, and she reached down and grabbed my big toe through the layers of bedding. “I would have forgotten, too, if I could.”

I don’t want to say the breath of relief I heaved out was a sob, but it sure sounded like one.

Not everybody else had something to say. Krem admitted a small degree of jealousy; “I wish one of you would have told me when the Iron Bull figured it out. I hate it when you leave me out of shit, Chief.”

One and Two pointed at Skinner and Squirrel, respectively, while Siren indicated her agreement with Krem. Meck argued that I should have come clean as soon as I remembered, but he understood why I forgot and why I kept silent. His ended up being the most popular opinion, although not by a wide margin.

I had the floor again and was preparing to begin reparations when the door swung open and Gwen slid into the room. Everybody turned when the door opened, but when it was _just Gwen_ all eyes turned back to me. She seemed to inspect me for a moment, and then turned away with an absent nod and moved briskly to her desk. She seemed dedicated to ignoring what we were saying.

“I was told that Andraste couldn’t save everybody,” I said, and had everybody’s undivided attention once more. “She said I had the right skills for this assignment, more or less, and as I understand it, I am alive strictly because She needed somebody to make sure Gwen survived, and I was suitable for the job. I know some of you are probably really fucking angry with me. You might think I’m a liar, or a coward, or any number of terrible things. I sure do. Krem can tell you, I’m not really all that fond of myself of late, and I’m not going to argue my worth. I’m a selfish little dickhole, and I want to be better. But you should all know that every decision I made, I made because I thought it was what I had to do to stay alive and get to the point in time where I needed to help Gwen, because that was the agreement that bought my ticket to come to this world. I owe Andraste for saving me, and my payment plan resides solely in our Ma.”

“What’s that saying Gwen has?” The Bull rumbled. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty?”

“What does that mean?” Chanter asked, from somewhere beneath my bed.

“It’s how we measured somebody’s eyesight,” I answered. “Twenty-twenty means you have perfect vision, and something twenty feet away is as clear as something twenty feet away should be. Bad vision might be, like twenty-eighty or twenty-two hundred or something, where twenty feet is as indistinct as something two hundred feet away should be. The saying means, everything is perfectly clear once it’s in the past, and correct decisions are obvious once they’re made.”

“Maker’s burning mistress, but you’d have be handy as a fucking Gwen translator,” Wilder sighed. “All her crazy sayings and songs and-“

“Songs!” Krem hissed. “You son of a bitch-“

“I know!” I put my hands up and flinched back, as my Lieutenant suddenly was _furious_ with me. “I’ve been trying to get her to share her music with us, and I know more, I swear I know more, and she’ll share more now that she-“

“Easy,” the Chief warned. “It was Twitch who brought up music on the road, you can’t be mad at him for that one, at least.”

“To the Void I can’t,” Krem muttered. “He’s been holding out on us for _years_.”

“You have been holding out on us for years,” Siren agreed, sounding more amiable than Krem but bearing the exact same scowl on her face.

“I think that was the point to his whole confession,” Bull reminded her. “And if we’re honest about it, there’s only one truly wounded party here.”

“That Viddathari?” Skinner asked, rather pointedly.

Bull shook his head. “That was ultimately the Qun’s fault, not Twitch’s.”

“Who then?” she shot back.

“Gwen,” Bull rumbled, and pushed to his feet. “So let’s get her out here.”

Gwen, at least, I wasn’t worried about. If everybody else immediately went wide-eyed and shifty, I’d already had my come-to-Jesus with Gwen. At some point, the Infirmary Chief had gone into the water closet to sit with Jamy, and the two of them emerged on Bull’s heels after a brief interview.

One and Two scooted off the side of the bed so Gwen could settle in next to me, in almost the same spot she’d sat for our conversation just a short while before. She glanced around once she was situated and seemed immediately flustered to notice we were all waiting on _her_.

“I’ve just got one question, if that’s what you’re wanting,” she stammered.

Several of us nodded.

“Who started calling me _mom_?”

It was something nobody expected, and it cut through the tension like nothing else could. We burst into laughter, and the few of us who were a bit quicker on the uptake managed to point the finger where it belonged: straight at a red-faced Grim.

“You damn liars,” she chided, slapping at the pointing hands closest to her. She managed to make contact with Squirrel, Krem, and what was probably Chanter, angled up from below. “Don’t pin this on Grim.”

Grim shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

Gwen’s jaw dropped. “Really? Grim called me Mom?”

She looked around at our smiling, nodding faces and laughed at herself. “Well, shit. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

“Questions for _Twitch_ ,” Krem prompted her.

She just shrugged. “I have a million. Who his favorite band was-“ Krem shot me an evil glare “-and whether we’d ever visited the same places or where his family was from and what he was doing in Boston and I don’t know. It’s endless.” She drew out the smiles I had been working for, and it was easy to believe I was going to make it through this as a Charger. “But it’s nothing I _need_ to know,” she concluded. “If it needs to be buried – or stay buried – that’s Twitch’s decision.”

A sea of nods swelled around me, and I felt true peace for the first time in so long I almost didn’t recognize the sensation.

“You don’t need to know what his mission was,” Krem pressed, “or why he chose the Chargers or-“

“No,” Gwen cut him off. “I don’t trust him one ounce less now than I did yesterday. Or any of the rest of you, for that matter. What you said earlier, Krem... Chargers are Chargers, regardless of where they came from. I don’t have any complaints about any of you, and this doesn’t change that.”

Did she know? Did she know she was a god damn saint? Did she know she might have just saved me from being torn apart by an angry mob? The court of public approval had been swayed; if Gwen didn’t care, nobody cared, and suddenly even Skinner’s eyes were warm.

“Tell her,” Bull grunted, and I snapped to attention as best as I could. He had to mean the little bits he hadn’t known, the bits about my willpower and the way I’d pushed the chain of events into her favor. She needed to know what she was forgiving me for.

“I did make some suggestions on those first days after we lost Haven to try to make sure you were accepted. I took those bandages off your back and carried them for you. I was one of the first to give you a ride through the snow. And I brought you food and said at some point you should just crash out in our tent, since we could keep an eye on you and Krem could understand you. And I _wanted_ you to be accepted by the Chargers, and that counts for a lot, as you know. I have to own that.”

She nodded and then shrugged. “Thank you. I appreciate being a part of this. Is everybody else okay with-“

“Yes,” thirty-something voices clamored, and the last of my fear lifted from my shoulders.

“Alright,” Gwen laughed. “So what’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Bull pronounced.

A cheer went up, and all I could do was laugh.

It was over. It was finally over.

“There’s a handful of you who have one more day under observation,” Gwen said as she pushed off the side of my bed. “The rest of you can get out.”

They laughed, and she didn’t stay to make sure she was obeyed, but within half an hour everybody was gone but the five of us who were under observation, and Bull.

“That was the one thing I didn’t put together, although I did have all the information to figure it out,” the Chief said once the room had gone quiet. Krem had taken over the bed next to mine, presumably so he could start to pump me for information once we were alone. “You said you had that willpower trick, and I’d known at the time something was off with the way the Chargers banded around Gwen that day in Haven, but I never realized it was you. I should have.”

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry, Chief,” I told him, finding myself subconsciously bracing for impact again. “I don’t think you actually would have let her die in the snow, but I couldn’t risk it. I... I hate to say I was bowing to a higher power, but-“

“I get it, kid.” He leaned back and sighed. “I almost sacrificed all of you for the Qun. Believe me. I get it.”

“Almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades,” I quipped, and Krem’s eyes lit up.

Bull just shook his head. “I think I’m going to regret saying this, but I’m looking forward to finally getting to see the full capacity of that head of yours.”

“I swore, a long time ago, that once I started talking I would never shut up.”

“Consider me warned,” the Iron Bull laughed, and then strode out of the room.

There was complete silence for a minute. Two. Ten.

“Music, Twitch. For fuck’s sake.”

I laughed at my Lieutenant and leaned back in my bed, tucking my hands behind my head. “Let me tell you the story of Freddie Mercury.”


	44. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's got it all. Alternative origins! The Champion! The Herald! Abominations! Necromancers! Letters! Friends! Yet another spinoff! GREAT BIG EPIC REVEAL.  
> And, you guys... Gwen ships it.

Gwen came by just before noon to release us from our observation, and if I thought to make a clean break I was a damn fool.

Krem had to report to the Bull and I hung back just far enough to escape his line of sight and try to take the long way around to the bunkhouse and maybe avoid the hazing I was sure was waiting for me. If they set the trap to catch me coming in with Krem, then I just wouldn’t show up until they didn’t expect me.

I managed to escape the beating from the Chargers, but only because I forgot who else already knew about my background.

“You son of a _bitch_ ,” Anders hissed, pinning me to the door of the tower I was trying to sneak through, as soon as it had swung shut behind me. It took me a second to determine what was pressed to my throat, but when I realized it was his fucking _staff,_ I shut my eyes and prayed for someone to interrupt us before he could murder me.

Anders reared back to say something, and a _thump_ hit the door, as if someone was trying to come through behind me in a hurry.

“I know you’re in there, Twitch! You let me in, or by the Maker, I will not stop until I find you and I will gibbet you for answers!”

Anders eased back with an insufferably smug look on his face as my prayer was apparently answered in the form of _another pissed off Warden_. I stepped away from the door and Anders swung it open, allowing Alistair to tumble into the room.

“Do you know?” Alistair demanded of Anders as soon as he’d taken in the scene.

“Gwen told me yesterday.”

They looked at each a moment, as if sizing up the other man’s anger, and then turned at once to descend upon me.

“Do I get a chance to explain?” I asked, putting my hands up to accept whatever fate they had planned.

“Not yet,” Anders gritted. “There’s somebody else who needs to hear this.”

“Good,” Alistair gritted through clenched teeth. “I was going to suggest the same thing.”

Alistair took my right elbow, Anders my left, and the two of them hauled my ass out of the tower, across the courtyard – where Siren and Squire watched with grim satisfaction painted across their faces – through the main hall – gaining us a raised eyebrow and ultimately another follower from Varric – into the garden, and then into the room where I was immediately thrust in front of none other than Garrett Hawke.

“Alright, so you’ve pissed off Alistair _and_ Anders,” Hawke deduced, looking between his two Warden friends and the intrigued but clueless dwarf in their wake. “And apparently, whatever you’ve done involves me somehow, and they think it will be the worst punishment to make you come clean.”

Alistair nodded once, sharply, while Anders seemed put off by Hawke’s reaction.

Garrett looked at Anders and then settled himself more deeply into the upholstered armchair he’d been lounging in. He set aside his book and crossed his arms nonchalantly. “Anders seems surprised, which means either he didn’t know we were well acquainted, or he thinks I underestimate the concern. Either way, Twitch, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“He’s like Gwen,” Anders practically spat. “He’s been here since the Blight and he considered coming to Kirkwall to help us and _decided against it_.”

Hawke sat bolt upright in his chair, knocking the book to the floor. “You son of a bitch!”

“I can explain!”

“You fucking _better_.”

“I will! Maker, just... give me a damn _chance_.”

There was a banging on the door, then, and before Varric could move to open it, it burst open to admit the Iron Bull.

“Don’t kill him!” he demanded, striding into the room.

“I’m not going to kill him,” Hawke snapped, waving a hand. “Even if he’s a son of a bitch, he’s still _useful_. I’m not in the business of killing useful allies, no matter what you’ve heard, Qunari.”

“Tal'Vashoth,” Varric corrected softly.

The room went still.

“My condolences,” Hawke offered softly. "Or perhaps congratulations, seeing as you live."

“Twitch is one of mine and I want him back _intact_ ,” Bull growled, as if the previous exchange hadn’t happened. “Understood?”

“Understood, Bull,” Varric replied.

My Chief nodded, and turned to leave. “I’ll tell the Chargers that Hawke is giving you a better ass-kicking than they could. It won’t save you, but it’s the best you can hope for.”

“Thanks, Chief,” I called, wincing at how weak my voice sounded. The door swung shut behind him, and I was suddenly very alone.

“Give the kid a chair,” Varric advised. Oh, how I loved that dwarf. “We’ll probably be here awhile.”

Anders sat cross-legged on one bed, Hawke kept his chair, and I took one of the wooden chairs from the table for myself once Alistair and Varric had settled at the table and gestured for me to sit down.

"First, my mother was a lovely woman," I said, settling in to spill my guts. I gave them the story like I had the Chargers, although I had to add in more details since this group hadn’t been travelling with me for years and didn’t know the little things, like my fear of darkspawn or the Amaranthine Incident, as it was coming to be called. When I concluded, Hawke put his hand up for silence, and _stared_ at me for a minute. I didn’t have eyes for the others; Hawke’s opinion seemed the most important at the time.

“Two questions,” he said eventually. I nodded.

“First. The _story_ that Gwen says she knows about me – that you seem to also know. What is it?”

“The Tale of the Champion, as told by Varric Tethras to Cassandra Pentaghast,” I answered immediately. “With a few variants depending on whether the eldest Hawke was male or female, and which twin survived, and the like.”

Hawke flinched, _hard_ , at the implication that in some worlds Carver died and Bethany lived, but he’d said two questions and he seemed to be pretty committed to that. Varric, on the other hand, was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “As told by me? So what you know is what I told Cass? Fantastic. No worries, Blondie, the kid wouldn't have been that much help if he'd come to Kirkwall.”

“Second,” Hawke continued, once Varric chuckled himself into silence. “Who were you before you came here?”

What a question. Gwen was sure to ask a hundred questions in that vein later, but the only person from Thedas to want to know who I had been, rather than why I was who I became, was Garrett damn Hawke.

“I was just some dumb kid,” I admitted. “Fresh out of school, first big job, about to propose to his first real girlfriend, didn’t know shit about shit.”

Hawke’s hand slid up to cup his chin and he nodded to himself for several long minutes.

“How about we have an exchange of information, you and I,” he said, and I found myself leaning forward, disbelieving what I was hearing. “You... you have stories I would like to hear. Stories about your world and your knowledge and what you think about what you’ve seen since you’ve been here. And I... I have the real version of that story Varric told, that I think I would like to tell you.”

Varric and Anders were both smiling now, but more predatory than happy. Alistair seemed just as gobsmacked as I felt.

“I think twenty-year-old-me would kill now-me if I said anything but _fuck yeah_ ,” I told the Champion.

Hawke smiled and nodded. “Good. But not today. We have other business to attend to, today.”

“Who is we?” I asked, fairly confident I was not included.

“You and I,” Hawke answered, pushing to his feet and smiling in the face of my surprise. “If Alistair wants to kick your ass for not talking to Sten in the town square that day, that’s on him. Maker knows it would have saved him a decade of grief from Solona, to hear him tell it. But Gwen’s piano is arriving today, and I want an encore.”

 

*

I managed to avoid the ass-kicking from Anders, Alistair, _and_ the Chargers. Part of that was good will from my sitting at Gwen’s piano that night and coaxing five hours of music out of her. The other part was my new apparent deals with Hawke and Gwen.

Hawke and I met a few times a week, and took turns telling each other our life stories. My world and my experiences in Thedas were flatly astounding to him, and his real story – or at least as much of it as he was at liberty to disclose – was so different than the story I was told as to make me regret all over again my decision not to go to Kirkwall.

That set me up pretty well with Anders, since to be on Hawke’s good side is to be friends with renegade mage.

Alistair sat in on those chats as much as he could; he spent a surprising amount of time with Morrigan, but given how wrong I was about the second Dragon Age game, I figured I had to be more misled about the first. Perhaps they had been great friends. I decided it was none of my business.

Everyone was around when Gwen was in the ‘Rest at night, and she spent almost every evening there. I was willing to tell her my story, and it was decided that would be offered up in exchange for her bringing her music with her. She didn’t always bring her cell phone, but she could always be coerced to sit at the piano, which in many ways was better.

She had me start at the beginning, and eventually work my way through my whole story, to where Gwen dropped out of the portal and she knew how it went from there. From that point I dropped the narrative and thought we were done. I was wrong.

“So when do I get to meet Opie?” Gwen asked, gesturing around us to indicate an unacceptable absence. “Is she with the mages?”

“She’s... not,” I answered, taking a glance around. We were sitting at the bar, so she was being given her space. The rest of the Chargers weren’t as interested in the last bits of the story, since they’d been around for it all, and Hawke had heard it from me a few days prior. We were practically alone, but I still didn’t want to delve much deeper into the personal enigma that was Ophelia.

“What do you mean, she’s not? You wrote her that letter saying you wanted to explain what happened!”

“She... she heard Haven was lost and assumed we were all dead.”

“What?”

It was hard to explain. Nearly impossible, really, since all I had to go off was the letter she’d sent somebody else. I didn’t understand her reasoning so I couldn’t explain her decision to bugger off into the great unknown and make it seem logical. I tried, and for several long minutes I attempted to explain to Gwen why Opie wasn't here.

“But you think Sera has a letter for you from her,” Gwen clarified when I'd finished. 

“I think so, yeah.”

Gwen’s eyebrows were pinched together, and she scowled at the air directly behind me, deep in thought.

“Tell me about Amaranthine again,” she said.

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Because that’s where you lost the thread. That’s where the story stops making sense. Go over Amaranthine again.”

I wanted her help to find Opie, so I humored her. If she was intrigued, she would help. I held on to that thought as I slogged through the entire shitty situation yet again.

“Wait,” Gwen said, reaching out to put a hand on my arm and stop me. “Go over that idiot bit again?”

“What bit?”

“The bit about what Ophelia said in the lean-to.”

“Hell, Gwen, I don’t know if that’s exactly what she-“

“Yes you do,” she said sharply. “Don’t give me that shit. Tell me precisely what she said.”

“She said… you came to Amaranthine, from Redcliffe, in three feet of snow, to rescue me from templars? And I said, of course I did. And _she_ said-“

“If you’re ever going to say it, Will, now would be the time.”

“No, she never called me Will. She called me Twitch. She was there when I-“

“You _dense motherfucker,_ ” Gwen groaned, putting the heels of her hands to her eyes, just exactly like Opie had.

“Excuse me?”

She wrapped her arms around her head and then started pounding her forehead against the bar.

“Gwen! Gwen, stop,” I laughed, pulling her away from self-harm and swinging her around to face me. “What’s gotten into you?”

“If you’re ever going to _say it, Twitch_ ,” she repeated putting her hands to either side of my head like she meant to crush my skull. “ _Now would be the time to say it, Twitch_.”

“Right! So I did.”

Gwen made this god-awful strangled sound and looked around as if she wanted something to throw. Cabot wordlessly handed her a wooden pitcher that she lobbed vehemently across the room to clatter against the underside of the stairs.

“If you were ever going to tell her you loved her, you _dense motherfucker_ , that would have been the time!” she hissed, her hands in two claws, hovering dangerously near to my throat.

This entire situation stopped being funny.

“What? No. You’ve got it all- no. Just no.”

Gwen’s hands drifted back towards her face, as if she was going to grip her head again, and instead clenched into fists and started shaking. “She’s right. Oh, my god, she’s _right_. You’re an _idiot_. You don’t even know you’re in love with her.”

“But I’m-“ I tried to say I was not, but the word would not come.

I had focused on only telling the truth for so long that I reflexively looked for the lie, to be sure I stayed honest. And there, laid out before me, was the simple truth, the thing that made everything else make sense.

“Oh, fuck,” I said instead, and laid my head on the bar.

“Yes, _oh fuck_ ,” she mocked, “You fucking idiot! How did you not know?”

“I don’t know!” I shot back.

“What do you mean you don’t know!”

“I mean I didn’t know until right the fuck now!”

“YOU DENSE MOTHERFUCKER!” she yelled into my face.

“STOP SAYING THAT!” I shouted back.

“STOP FIGHTING IN QUNLAT AT THE BAR!” Bull thundered from the other side of the ‘Rest.

We both fell silent, realizing – far too late – that all eyes were on us.

Gwen adjusted her stool and sat back down at the bar. Cabot had retrieved the thrown pitcher and filled it with ale and deposited it in front of us. Gwen generally drank wine, but she helped herself to a stout mug of ale and drank deeply. She seemed to collect herself and then turned slightly to look at me.

I hadn't moved. I didn't have the energy to lift my head off the bar; it was all dedicated to the desperate fight against oblivion in my brain. My entire world had stopped and started making sense at the precise same moment.

“She didn’t want to know you were dead,” Gwen said softly, in Common, cognizant of the curious stares slowly drifting back to their own business. “She would rather not talk to her family – since she’d already done that for years, when she was in the Circle, and knew she could withstand it – than risk one of them telling her you were dead. She didn't know if she could survive that confirmation. That’s what’s in the letter, Twitch.”

I shook my head. “Her knowing I loved her isn’t the same as her loving me, Gwen. That doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have left-”

“Twitch. Love. Darling, stupid, moronic boy,” she said, taking my wrists and shifting me to face her; her expression stony but sympathetic, like she needed to explain to me that Santa Claus wasn’t real. “She never would have given you that opening if she didn’t want to hear that you loved her, if she wasn't amenable to the idea. She obviously had feelings for you. She might not have known how extensive they were, or how far they ranged away from being strictly platonic, but there were feelings there. So picture this: this man, that she hasn’t seen in years, who has been writing her diligently since he left her behind, who she definitely has feelings for, _drops everything and races across the country in three feet of snow in the dead of winter to rescue her_. And what did you rescue her from? The things she feared more than anything else on earth. Returning to the Circle. Being raped to death by templars. Tranquility. _But no_. Her valiant knight galloped in on a white horse to save her. Took her to safety. Held her when she broke down. Do you see the fairy tale here?”

It _burned_. I didn’t know if it was mortification or regret, but it was fire in my veins. I clenched my eyes shut.

“And what would the fairy tale ending be, darling boy? For her to express her surprise at his willingness to leap to her rescue, and then the man she has feelings for would say, as she’s lying snot-faced and miserably happy in his arms, ‘of course I did, Ophelia. _I love you_.’ And she went so far as to _give you that opening_. And you, you utter buffoon, you say what?”

“I told you so,” I whispered.

“I told you so,” she echoed. “You _dense motherfucker_.”

“You _dense motherfucker_ ,” Krem’s voice echoed, and my head snapped up. I was relieved to see it was only my Lieutenant standing there, with the relative privacy otherwise maintained, but my relief was short lived. “You told her you had to huddle together for warmth, and shared a bedroll, and spent _a month_ tracking down the Chargers, and you _never put it together_?”

“You’re not helping, Krem,” I sighed.

Krem responded with a palmstrike to my forehead. “What the shit, dude.”

Gwen snorted a laugh at the Earthism but all I could manage was an eyeroll.

“Twitch, it’s been almost _two years_ ,” Krem pressed.

“I know, Krem, I know.”

“ _Years_ ,” he said again and I squeezed my eyes shut. “Maker’s ass, man, she might kill you when we find her.”

“So of course you’re going to push to find her,” I surmised.

“Shit, yes. This will be better than watching a Dreadnaught blow up.”

“First,” Gwen interrupted, pulling me around to face her instead of Krem. “We need the letter from Sera. I’ll talk to her. Then, once you can’t lie to yourself about what’s going on anymore... then, we go looking for her. But Twitch?”

“Yeah, Ma?”

She shooed Krem away, and my Lieutenant dutifully buggered off. “We need to not find her yet.”

“What?”

She patted my wrist, topped off both of our drinks, and then led me up the stairs, to Sera’s room. Sera was out in the tavern, and she waved Gwen in from the opposite side of the stairs. Gwen pulled me to the window and out onto the roof.

Her eyes glowed this eerie green color and she looked around us for a bit before looking back at me with a nod and normal eyes once again.

“Do you know anything about how _Inquisition_ ends?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, with her mug pressed to her mouth. I realized she was taking precautions to make sure _no one_ overheard us, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

I shook my head, _no_. She was talking about the  _game_ , not the organization, which was still a bit jarring to recall.

“We are going to need allies,” she whispered, the mug still hiding her mouth, her voice still barely louder than the tavern noise hovering in the air around us. “We are going to need powerful people that are currently completely unknown to the Inquisition. And we need them to stay hidden until after Corypheus falls.”

“I don’t understand,” I whispered back, putting my own mug up to cover my mouth.

She smiled at my picking up on her cues, her eyes on my mug briefly before winking at me.

“That’s good. I will explain... later. But right now, you should know. I will find Ophelia for you... but not _now_. She needs to not be important... _yet_.”

“When?” I prompted.

“Soon, I hope,” she whispered, and I was surprised to catch what could have been regret in her tone.

“I... I don’t understand.”

She merely nodded and tugged me to my feet. “I know.”

Sera was in her room when we ducked back in through her window.

“Sera, I know what the letter says and why you don’t want Twitch to see it, but he’s ready,” she announced to the elf without preamble.

“You really don’t-“

“Stop it,” Gwen chided. “Have you ever known me to be wrong about something like this?”

Sera glared at Gwen, and then rolled her eyes and dug into the large curio cabinet that had been slowly collecting odds and ends over the months we’d all been in Skyhold.

“Fine. Here. But remember, _you asked for this_. I was doing you a favor, saving you some pain.”

She handed it to Gwen, but Gwen immediately turned and deposited the paper in my hands.

It was not addressed, which made it easier for me to believe, if only for a moment, that it wasn’t actually for me, that it was a letter to Sera or to someone else or _from_ someone else. I could cling to denial for just that much longer.

But inside was handwriting I would know in my sleep.

 

_Twitch,_

_The crier came through this morning and announced that Haven was lost, buried under an avalanche after the Breach was closed. He said the Inquisition was lost, that there were no survivors._

_Aillis said that didn’t make sense, that the Breach has only been closed for two days and that logistically the statement is impossible. If there were no survivors, who told the crier? No one could have hiked out to Haven and back in that time. The word had to have been sent by bird, one of the Inquisitions ravens or something else, and that meant it was **sent**. _

_She doesn’t believe that the message was sent as a last gasp of a dying people, but with how fucking noble you assholes have been made out to be, that makes perfect sense to me. Surely the sorts of people running an organization like that have something in place in case they fail. But Aillis is insisting that the story is false, that someone had to have survived, and if somebody did then everyone could have._

_Which is, ultimately, the only reason I’m writing this: Aillis insisted. I‘m leaving this with her to deliver or destroy; I’m on my own now, in truth. Solona’s missing, the Circles have fallen, and if I want allies I’m going to have to raise my own._

_I understand, now. Everything. Why you held me at arm’s length, why you left, why you didn’t argue when I said I wouldn’t come too. You laughed when you told me where you had to be, said you hoped you timed your arrival in Haven for after everything went bad, but you knew. Oh, Twitchy, you always knew. Even if someone survived, I know that someone couldn’t have been you._

_The date you had to keep was with your end. No wonder you wanted to forget. For the first time, I want to forget._

_If I had a few minutes to talk to you, if I had just a brief window of time to tell you something before the avalanche buried you beneath the ruins of Andraste’s Temple, I would say thank you. Thank you for always treating my family and I like we were just people. Thank you for seeing my magic as a particularly amusing tool but not a strike against my character. Thank you for never asking me for anything, not one rune or spell or hex or display. You never even asked me for fire, that night in Amaranthine… you asked only if I had enough mana to do it._

_I never felt like just a mage around you. I was never a knife-ear, never a poor alienage rat, never a defenseless woman. You never made me feel like anything less than your equal. You trusted me to have your back, implicitly, from the very first hours you knew me. No one else, not even Solona or my family, has ever trusted me and my magic wholly and immediately; only you._

_Void take me, I loved you for it._

_May you find your peace at the Maker’s side._

_Always your Ophelia_

 

I was on the floor of Sera’s room, with no real idea how I got there.

Sera was sitting a few feet away, perched cross-legged on the long bench beneath the window. Gwen was on the floor with me, close besides me, hips and knees and shoulders in contact, her head on my shoulder as she read the letter I held out to her, in shock.

“I wanted to save you from this, Twitchy,” Sera said, with a gentleness in her voice at odds with the shaking rage that had taken my gut.

“You fucking asshole,” I managed.

Gwen leaned back, surprised. I couldn’t look at Sera to judge her reaction. I couldn’t look at anything but the line that told me exactly where she’d gone.

“I could have gotten to her before the trail got cold,” I told the Jenny I’d watched grow up in the streets of Denerim. “She could be here, now. I could already have all of this straightened. I could-“

“I read that a dozen times,” Sera argued. There was no anger in her voice as she defended herself. “There are no cyphers, no clues, no hints-“

“What kind of mage is she, Sera?” I demanded, swinging around on the floor. Gwen rose to her feet and stumbled away, closing the door in a hurry to keep our argument contained. “Do you even know?”

“No,” Sera said, with a shrug. “She didna use much magic around me. Knew I didna like it.”

“She told you, in the other letter,” I could see her words, her handwriting, clearly in my memory. I had known it was the key; this had been the other half. “She told you she’d gone the only place an elf could go.”

“Right, and that doesn’t-“

“Right here, Sera. _If I want allies I’m going to have to **raise**  my own_.”

“Wut?”

“Oh god,” Gwen breathed.

“She’s a necromancer,” I reminded Gwen. I’d only just told her the story of what Opie had found when she’d come home to Denerim, how she’d freed her cousins. I hadn’t seen her use her magic much, but Aillis and Eamon had mentioned it, more than once, when talking about how Opie had fought off bandits on the road.

Sera hadn’t put the pieces together, because it wasn’t meant for her. It was meant for Solona, or me, or maybe even Aillis, if Aillis had thought about it long enough. Sera didn’t like magic. Sera wouldn’t have thought about it like the rest of us would.

“Where is the only place a city elf can go, once the Circles have fallen, once her friend the Warden has disappeared, to study necromancy, to _raise her own allies_?”

“Nevarra,” Gwen whispered.

I nodded my head as Sera went pale. “She’s in Nevarra. Tevinter's not safe for her, the Dalish wouldn't take her, she can't trust the Wardens, the Circles are gone. That’s why Aillis and Eamon couldn’t go with her. That’s why she didn’t travel with them when they headed east. That’s why there’s been no trace of her. She’s studying with the _mortalitasi_.”

Sera didn’t seem to know what to say. Hell, _I_ didn’t know what to say. I’d thought Opie’s letter had been the key to the whole problem, but I hadn’t seen this.

I couldn’t possibly have imagined this.

But Sera thought she was helping me, thought she was saving me heartache. And if there hadn't been a key to a puzzle in these words, that's exactly what I would be wallowing in at that moment. She wasn't wrong; the words hurt. 

“I have a bag,” I told Sera, rubbing my hands through my hair and grasping at straws to try to hold myself together. “It is everything I brought with me to Thedas. It’s underneath the curbstone of the threshold of the back door to the Pearl, in that little alley that dead ends in the three doors. You know the one?”

“Yeah,” Sera said with a nod.

“You’re going to write a letter to Senna. You’re going to tell her that you gave me the letter, and that I immediately figured out where Opie went. And you’re going to tell her that her cousin is somewhere in Nevarra, but that I’m going to find her. I’ve got help, and I _am_ going to find her. And whoever you send with that letter is going to get my fucking bag and bring it back here, _intact_ , and then, _maybe_ , you and I can talk about being Friends.”

Sera nodded, rapidly, as if she was eager to make amends.

I folded Ophelia’s letter, pushed up off the floor, and left her room.

I went up. Past the piano bar Gwen had set up. Out the door onto the battlements. North to the tower at the corner, the farthest point I could get northwest.

The closest point to Nevarra.

I unfolded the letter. I read it again.

And again.

And again.

She was wrong about why I forgot. She was wrong about so much. She'd taken all the broken pieces I'd given her and crafted a story that was far kinder to me than the truth would ever be. In her mind, I was saving her from my noble end; in truth she'd been watching my cowardice and ignorance in action for a decade. It was entirely possible that when she found out the truth, she wouldn’t be able to forgive me. It was possible I would find her and immediately lose her again.

But the answer, that I'd found in this letter?

The answer made the search worthwhile.

Maker’s Mercy, she loved me. I couldn't see it because I didn't deserve her. I didn't  _like_ myself, why the fuck would Opie love me?

Dense motherfucker was right.

“I will find her,” Gwen’s voice drifted up softly on the winter wind. She had followed me out of the 'Rest, at a respectable distance. I wasn't sure if she was going to approach me or just watch, but I wasn't surprised by her quiet reassurance.

“I do not doubt you,” I answered, in English to match her own simple statement.

“You said... for Sera to write Senna?”

I nodded. She moved into my field of view, and wrapped her cold fingers around my wrist. I glanced down to see her giving me a very calculating sort of look.

“Senna is her cousin?”

“Senna Tabris,” I confirmed, putting the emphasis on the last name that I knew she sought.

“And Ophelia’s original name was Kaiopi...?”

“Surana,” I affirmed. I could almost see the gears turning in Gwen’s head as she started making plans.

“There was a dwarf in the Marketplace, named Durin," I told her. "He was quiet, didn’t have a brand, and was best friends with Gorim Saelac.”

Gwen’s eyes widened and then narrowed again. “You got any friends in Ostwick?”

It was an odd question; even moreso because of my answer. “Actually, I do. I know the Jenny there, and I think she’s got Carta ties.”

Gwen's brow furrows and she folded her arms across her chest. “And you’ve met Solona Amell. You were gifted a sword by Alistair Theirin.”

I just nodded.

“I tell you what, Twitch. Just so we’re putting this new relationship of ours on an even keel. Both of us being earthling aliens and all. You start brewing up a list of interesting personages you’ve met over the years. Keep it to yourself, for now, but just start thinking about it. And as soon as it’s safe for me to start looking, I’ll find your Ophelia, and you give me your list. A favor for a favor.”

“You’ve got a deal, Herald,” I agreed, and put out my hand.

She took it and shook it, and then without another word, turned and left me alone with my letter.

_Void take me, I loved you for it._

Void take me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	45. The Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitch's past comes back to him... right in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. As discussed in the notes in the prior chapter, I am writing a DA2 spinoff. I am not dedicating much time to it because that's too many irons in the fire. BUT. It is a thing that will happen.  
> 2\. I am currently of the belief that this story will be 50 chapters long. I haven't actually finished writing it, so I'm not putting in the final chapter count, but I'm confident enough to put it in these notes.  
> 3\. Happy V-day! If you choose to celebrate it, I hope you have a lovely time. I don't, because he brings me chocolate all year and neither one of us needs any more stuff. In honor of the St Valentines Day massacre, have some Twitch getting punched in the face. <3

If I walked around in a daze for a few days, the Chargers seemed to have gotten the pertinent information from Krem and left me be. I trained, like I was supposed to. I slept and ate and did my job. I functioned. It was all anyone would ask of me.

I managed to read through every letter from Ophelia I had, which was everything she’d ever sent me. Everything that had confused me so badly after Amaranthine made so much more sense now... I tried to remember everything I written in the letters I'd sent back, but those memories were indistinct. It was hard not to sit and wonder about how much different everything could have been.

I sat down and wrote Higgins’ Jenny, the esoteric Knuckles, to thank her for all her hard work and let her know I was now pretty well convinced that the Friend we were looking for had gone to Nevarra. I had no real hope that Knuckles would have any connections with the Mortalitasi, but I had absolutely nothing to lose by asking. At the very minimum, she needed to know to stop wasting her time looking for Opie in the Free Marches.

After a lot of thought, I wrote to Kyler. I felt I owed Opie’s sister an apology, and a trip to Denerim to do it in person didn’t seem to be in the cards in the near future. I explained where I thought Ophelia had gone, a rough explanation of how I had Inquisition resources on tap to find her, and, painfully, admitted that it had never crossed my mind that Opie would feel anything for me outside a familial affection.

_Your sister can do so much better than me. It never crossed my mind that she might be willing to settle for some idiot shem. I still don’t really know what to think, so I’m trying not to. Typical Twitch, I suppose. I’ll find her, and I’ll make this right. I swear to you._

Alistair was easily available, which saved me a letter.

“Nevarra,” I announced when I found him in the garden, teaching Morrigan’s son to play chess.

“Hrm?”

“Opie. She’s in Nevarra.”

“Oh!” He came halfway out of his chair, stopped, made a quick apology to the boy – Kieran, it seemed his name was – and then stood to give me his full attention. “You’ve found her?”

“No, I finally got my hands on the letter she sent when she thought I was dead. I think she’s studying with the Mortalitasi – or attempting to. Gwen’s got a plan.”

Alistair nodded. “Good. Good. Even if you don’t get her to leave Nevarra, as long as we know that she’s safe where she is, that should keep Solona happy.”

“Do you think she might not be safe?” There were too many variables to keep track of, too many things to worry about. Maker, why couldn’t she just _be here_?

Alistair shrugged. “She’s an elf _and_ a mage. Is anywhere truly safe?”

“Thanks. I was just thinking I needed something else to keep me awake at night.”

He patted me consolingly on the shoulder and then went back to his game. His young opponent was waiting patiently, although politely pretending her couldn’t hear us. He seemed like a good kid.

I wasn’t expecting to hear anything from Senna any time soon, but Gwen and Sera were both major cogs in the Inquisition machine and sent the letter with one of Leliana’s ravens. It was delivered by one of the Nightingale’s agents in Denerim, along with the coin for a horse and promise of more when my things were delivered to Skyhold.

Valora – an extended family member of the Tabris clan – was still the Denerim Red Jenny, and so Senna passed the _retrieving the package_ bit on to her to handle. She didn’t write a letter back, sending her message instead with the Friend who rode across Ferelden in the winter with a beat-to-shit leather pack retrieved from an alley next to The Pearl.

In all, the entire process took a week. I was sitting in the Rest when Senna’s response arrived, sprawled in a chair between Krem and Skinner, listening to the Chief tell some bullshit story to one of Cabot’s serving girls.

“Hank!” I called, surprised, as the man walked into the bar. “Andraste’s asshole, man, it’s good to see you.”

Hank – dressed in layers of furs and walking like a man who never wanted to see another horse again for the rest of his life – looked around the bar for a bit before figuring out where my voice had come from. He pulled his hood back to expose a broad grin.

“Twitch!” He sounded relieved, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been out of Denerim before. “I’ve got something I’m supposed to give to Sera, but I’ve got something for you, too.”

“That was quick,” I laughed as I popped out of my chair and strode across the room to shake his hand. “Welcome to Skyhold, man, how was the trip?”

“Cold and shitty,” he replied easily. His cheeks were ruddy and he pulled off sheepskin mittens and held them out to me. “Here, hold these for a second.”

I reached out and took them, a bit awkwardly as he dropped them into my waiting hands. I juggled them a bit, got a solid grip, and looked back up to Hank-

-just in time to meet his eye as his right fist connected with my jaw.

I blinked up at him from the floor – not remembering dropping but keenly aware of the impact – and allowed myself to be grateful that it was Hank, not Brue, who had brought the package.

“Was that from you?” I asked, reaching up to rub my jaw and realizing I was still holding his fucking mittens.

“Nah. You saved Opie in Amaranthine. If she ditched you, that’s on her. That was your message from Senna.”

“Is that my _only_ message from Senna? Or are you going to shank me in my sleep?”

“Nah,” he repeated, shrugging as he worked open the buttons on his coat. “She seems pretty sure Opie’s gonna gut you when you find her. And if not, Opie still gets first shot. None of us will try to kill you until you track her down.”

“That’s reassuring,” I sighed, and then threw his mittens at his face. Hank batted them away, laughing, and put a hand out. I took it, and he pulled me easily to my feet.

“Let me take this up to Sera and then you can buy me a drink,” Hank said, gesturing with the oiled canvas package he’d unclipped from his belt.

“That’s actually mine,” I said, and gestured at the stairs. “But by all means, take it to Sera. I know not to interfere in orders."

“Since when?” Krem teased as Hank and I climbed the stairs to the second floor. I flipped my Lieutenant off – earning a laugh from the half-dozen Chargers present – and reflected on how none of them had interfered when Hank had laid me out. I wasn’t sure if that was a statement on the way I lived my life or a reflection of what they thought I had coming to me, but it probably wasn’t a good sign.

On the other hand, if Hank had drawn steel, I was pretty confident Krem had my back.

Okay, so he might let me get stabbed a little. But they’d definitely send somebody to fetch Anders. Suffering ends at death, after all – that would let me off too easy.

“Hank!” Sera called as we neared her room. “I didna know Valora was sending _you_. You ever been outta Denerim before?”

“Not this far,” he confirmed, laughing, as he swept Sera up into a quick hug. “Maker, but you’ve grown. Look at you! Changing the world, just like you said you would. Good on you, kid.”

Sera beamed, and then swiped the package out of Hank’s hands and tossed it to me. “There you go, Twitchy. One pile of junk from the threshold of The Pearl, as requested.”

Sera sat on the broad bench that ran alongside the windows in the room, and gestured for Hank to have a seat nearby. I sank to the floor, cross-legged, and began to work out the iced-over knots.

“So that’s really for Twitch?” Hank asked, as he continued to work out of his cold-weather gear. “What’s the story here?”

I got the oiled canvas open and reached in to find a dust-covered, grimy, disgusting leather bag. There were some smudges and finger prints on it, but for the most part it looked exactly as it should: as if it had been buried in a disgusting back alley for ten years. There was a striped black and grey silk tie holding the whole thing closed, and suddenly I was back in the alley again.

Monstrous severed arm. Fifteen minutes post nuclear destruction. Strange man in a strange world. My stomach churned uncomfortably and I had to will the tremor out of my hands.

“That’s on Twitch to tell,” Sera said, and I glanced up to see her watching me sadly.

I opened the leather bag and dumped the contents into my lap. It was a roll of black cloth, tied with white cloth strips. My hands moved to the knots mechanically, and I loosened them enough to slide the strips of what used to be my shirt off the bundle of machined wool. It took some work to unroll the coat, but after a minute it was laid out on the floor, another black bundle within. This one was far smaller, and the material was still vibrant – a rich black that isn’t often seen in Thedosian clothing, against the stark white of bleached cotton.

Sera whistled thinly through her teeth. “I don’t think that’ll still fit ya, Twitchy.”

She was right – I was a good eight inches bigger around the shoulders, after ten years of mercenary work.

“What kind of coat is that?” Hank asked.

I ignored him, and untied the smaller bundle. It rolled open immediately, and exposed... well, _me_.

My key chain, with four house keys – my apartment, Cindy’s apartment, my parent’s front and back doors – and one fat black key to my old shitbox Toyota that I left behind in favor of public transportation whenever possible. My wallet, with two credit cards, my driver’s license, insurance card, and a couple hundred dollars, cash, for my planned night out with Cindy; our post-engagement celebration. The thin, glassy rectangle of metal that was my cell phone. And, lastly, a small burgundy velvet box.

I snapped the box open and felt the old heartache again. It was easier, now – ten years of distance did that, I supposed. Coming clean about it, and talking to Hawke about my life before I’d come to Thedas had brought more peace than I’d realized.

It was just a ring, now – something that I had hoped would mean something more. But that hope had died with the girl it was meant for, and I was a different person now.

I snapped the box closed and tossed it to Sera. “Just for shits and giggles, how much do you think that would have been worth, in Denerim ten years ago?”

She fumbled with it for a moment before figuring out how the hinge worked and then hissed again. “Maker’s fuzzy nutsack, Twitchy. You wouldn’t have made much money from the regular market, but a mage woulda given you a fortune for this.”

“What?” Hank asked, tipping his chin up to look at the ring in the box. “Wow, nice. That’s worth some coin, yeah.”

“Is it the same gold as Gwenna’s necklace?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Sera nodded, snapped the box closed, and tossed it back to me. “Was it meant for the same thing?”

I had to pause before I could answer. “Yeah. I was going to use it to ask my gir- to ask _Cindy_ to marry me.”

Hank sank backwards into the thick cushions of the bench. “This is your stuff from before I knew you.”

“Yeah.”

“This is from the life you lost in the Blight.”

“Not exactly,” I sighed. I flipped my wallet open, glanced inside, and then tossed it to him.

He looked at my picture on my driver’s license, rubbed his fingers against the currency, and frowned at the lettering on the cards. “What even is this? I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“It’s stuff from my world,” I told him, slowly, making sure he grasped what I was telling him. “When you met me in Denerim... I hadn’t lost my family in the Blight. I’d lost my world in a war. I’m a refugee from another world, a place with no magic, where machines and craftsmen make amazing things to take its place. I’m from a place with no races but humans, where you could travel the distance from Skyhold to Denerim in a matter of hours, and where you can talk to someone half the world away in an instant. That world is gone, and people like me – like the Herald of Andraste, Gwen – came here to escape, and to help Thedas avoid the same sort of fate.”

“You’re not fucking kidding,” Hank said, pale and still. “I keep expecting you to crack a smile or for that shoulder to twitch but you’re stone cold. You’re serious. You’re fucking _serious_.”

“I didn’t speak when I got here because I didn’t know your language,” I confessed. “I was sent on a mission to protect the Herald when she arrived, so I started learning to use a sword, so I wouldn’t be worthless in this world. You helped me so much when I got here, Hank, I can’t thank you enough.”

Hank sat still on the bench, hands hanging limply from elbows resting on knees, blinking at me as his world view shifted. Sera plucked the wallet off the cushion where’d he’d set it and thumbed through the cards. “What’s this green paper?”

“Money.”

“Your money is paper? Why?”

“Weighs less than metal,” I answered, shrugging. “They used to be based on a silver standard – you could turn one in for a specific amount of silver, anywhere. Eventually they stopped doing that, and everybody just agreed that the currency had worth.”

“But what if-“

“Yes,” I agreed, not really wanting to get into inflation and panic and the long history of paper money becoming worthless for anything besides starting fires. “Bad things can happen. It isn’t a perfect system.”

Sera frowned at me comically and tossed my wallet back. I dropped it back into the middle of the vest, and tossed her my keys, since I knew that would be the next question. “House keys.”

“Weird,” she said, drawing out the word into three or four syllables. “These must be a bitch to pick.”

“Most people don’t try to pick the lock anymore,” I told her, smiling. “They just break the door around it.”

“But then people know ya broke in!”

“Wouldn’t they know that, anyways, when their stuff shows up missing?”

She threw the keys back to me. “Only if yer stealing their stuff. Lots of reasons to break into places, Twitchy.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Did Opie know?” Hank asked, suddenly coming back into the conversation.

“Sort of,” I sighed. “I didn’t come right out and say I was from a different world, but I told her I’d been sent here. I told her I was training up to help somebody important when she arrived, that I had to be in the Frostback mountains in ten years’ time. I told her the few things I knew about the future... the Nevarran Accord, the war between mages and templars, told her to stay out of Haven and Kirkwall. She knew... knows... that I’m different, even if I didn’t spell out exactly how.”

Hank sighed and crossed his arms as he leaned back against the window seat. “She never could resist a mystery. If she hadn’t already been sweet on you, that would have been enough to tip her.”

Sera nodded, but all I could do was laugh. “Did everybody see it but me?”

“Wait, what?” Hank looked at Sera who nodded primly. “You didn’t... you weren’t...”

I shook my head. “No idea. I always thought I was an honorary Tabris, that I was family-“

“Well, _yeah_ , you were family. Because we all thought you were in the sack with Opie! That’s how you make yourself a family, Twitch. Do they not teach that in your world? Does it work differently, maybe? Where’d you think Brue’s kids came from?”

Sera _hooted_ and fell off the bench. “Man, fuck you, Hank. Opie could do so much better than me.”

“You ain’t kidding, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

I didn’t quite know where to go with that question. “It means... I mean... why would she _settle_ if-“

“Look, asshole,” Hank said as he slid forward on the bench to lean towards me and put our eyes more on level. “Love isn’t about _better_. It isn’t about what you _deserve_. Maker’s taint, kid, did the girl that ring was meant for deserve what she got? Did you deserve to lose her like you did? Nobody _deserves_ that. Life is short and it’s shitty and it’s _hard_ and when you come across love you grab it with both hands – and teeth and nails and toes if need be – and you hold on ‘til the Void takes you.”

I hadn’t ever heard Hank talk like this. I knew there was a lot of depth to the man, but this wasn’t a side he’d ever chosen to show me before. All I could do was sit in his wake and let him unload on me.

“You ran with us for years. _Years_. We might not have known where you came from, but that doesn’t mean for one hot minute that we didn’t know who you were. You broke your back to learn from Brue, you brought ol’ Nattie back to life, and you fell in behind Ophelia without _one fucking word_ of question or complaint. I’ve seen you take stupid risks and calculated risks and hesitate when you should have leaped, but _every time_ it was for the right reason. You got that chipped tooth standing up for a serving girl, your first kill was supporting Shianni, and never, _not once_ , did you hurt somebody who didn’t need hurting. And if all that didn’t make you worthy of Opie’s love, _who the fuck_ did you expect her to run into that was better?”

I had to swallow twice to clear my throat enough to speak. “I- I don’t know, Hank.”

He sat back and scrubbed his hands across his face. “Maker’s holy half-mast, kid, I don’t know if this makes everything worse or better. Senna’s been thinking you broke Opie’s heart, but if you didn’t even _know_...”

“Senna’s not wrong,” I sighed. I dug the letter she’d written out of my shirt pocket, where it had been safely hidden under my armor, and passed it over to him. “It just wasn’t something I consciously did. Opie thinks I’m dead.”

“We all thought that meant-“ he flipped open the letter and started to read. “Oh. She _literally_ thinks you’re dead. It’s not the dead-to-her sort of dead, but the actual not-breathing, body-crushed-beneath-a-mountain-of-stone, dead.”

“Yeah. Actual, rotting corpse, dead.”

“Huh. Sorry I punched you in the face, then.”

“I still probably deserved it.”

Hank shrugged. “Maybe, but not from me. The Tabris’ were all furious with you for hurting Ophelia. They didn’t realize this... all of this, I mean. If Senna knew... she would have been exasperated, I’m sure, but that murderous rage wouldn’t have happened.”

“Wait, you all thought I’d... what? Cuckolded her or something?”

“We didn’t know what. None of us could think of what you would have done that could have been so bad that Opie would say you were _dead to her_. Everything that fit the bill was pretty out of character for you. The letters we got from Opie were all pretty short and not very descriptive. Nothing like this. Mine said, _We’ve lost Twitch. I’m in the wind for now_. It was enough to make me knock on Kyler’s door. She didn’t have much more information than I did. This-“ he waved the letter at me, and I reached out and took it back, “-this makes a lot more sense. She didn’t tell us you were _dead,_ dead because she didn’t want to admit it. Poor thing.”

I tucked the letter back into its pocket and we all sat in companionable silence for a minute.

“She’s going to be fucking _pissed_ when she finds out you’re alive,” Hank added, conversationally. “This whole theory she has about why you’ve done what you’ve done is going to collapse and she isn’t going to handle that well.”

Sera was shaking her head, avidly, _no_ , in agreement.

“I know,” I sighed. “I still have to find her, though. She needs the truth. If that means she makes me dead for real, then so be it.”

Hank smiled at me and stood up, clapping me on the shoulder as he made his way out of the room. “And that’s why she loves you, asshole. Watch my gear, I’m going to go get that drink. You can buy the next one.”

I looked at Sera – she pursed her lips but remained silent – and then let my eyes fall on my cell phone.

I reached down and plucked it off the pile. It was intact, somehow. I turned it end-over-end in my hands, checking for cracks or flaws and finding none. I took a deep breath, and hit the power button.

I was greeted with a flicker of light and then the red _dead battery_ symbol.

I didn’t know whether to feel relief that I got that much, or disappointment that it didn’t immediately spring to life.

“Hey, you got your stuff!” Gwen’s voice chimed in from the door. I glanced up to see her smiling warmly at us. “You’ll have to bring that over to my room and put it on the charger. Are you and Sera good, then?”

I looked over at Sera, who met my eyes and shrugged.

“We’re getting there,” I said, and Sera beamed at me. I turned back to Gwen. “You want to meet my friend Hank? His eyes might pop out of his head when he figures out who you are.”

“Should I have Anders on standby for the impending coronary?” She laughed, as she dropped to the floor beside me and helped herself to my wallet. “Nice suit, by the way.”

“It was an investment for work,” I replied, the confession falling easily off my lips. After so many years of never talking about Earth, it was remarkable how easily the new habit formed. “Job interviews at first, but I got promoted at the bank and-“

“You were a banker? What, a teller?” Gwen asked, smiling wider. “No way.”

“Yes way,” I countered, and laughed with her. “I’d studied economics and urban development, and worked at a bank through college. When I graduated they gave me a promotion and I couldn’t really turn down the salary. It paid for the ring and I got to set my own hours.”

“You did it again,” Sera interrupted, and we both looked up at her. “You get’ta talking and just switch inna Qun-speak.”

“Sorry,” Gwen apologized immediately. “Some words don’t translate and then we just-“

“Not mad. Just tellin’ ya.”

“Sorry, Sera,” we said together, and then laughed.

“That explains why you were sketching Skyhold when we got here,” Gwen quipped, tossing my wallet back onto the pile. “You probably could have suggested a dozen better ways to improve the keep, you know.”

I shrugged. “My studies didn’t really focus on castle fortifications, to be honest.”

Gwen snorted a laugh and then carefully lifted the ring box out of the jumble of otherworldly items. “May I?”

“Cindy wouldn’t complain.”

Her smile broke for a second and then she snapped the box open. “It’s lovely, Twitch.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want- I know it’s been longer for you than for me, but everybody’s different, so it’s okay if you don’t, but I could- or, rather-“

“Gwen.” She stopped and bit her lip. “Spit it out.”

“Dagna melted my wedding band down into this pendant,” she babbled in a rush as she complied with my order. “She would shit herself for a chance to do it again, and maybe diamonds here are different too, I didn’t _have_ a diamond so I couldn’t-“

“Maybe!” I interrupted her torrent of words with a laugh. “Maker, woman, you’re insane. I’ll think about it, okay? I just got it back, I don’t want to rush out and get this melted down.”

“It’d be worth more if you did,” Hank announced as he strode back into the room, three mugs clenched in one fist. “The diamond, at least- oh! Sorry, I only grabbed the three, you can have mine and I’ll-“

“No, it’s fine,” Gwen laughed, waving him into the room. “I waved at Cabot on the way in, he’ll send Erika up after me sooner rather than later, I wager.”

“Suit yourself,” Hank agreed easily and handed Sera and I each a beer before making his way back to the cushion he’d been seated on before. “I’m Hank, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Hank, I’m Gwen.”

“You a healer?”

Gwen glanced down at her uniform and agreed with a smile. Hank nodded crisply. “You might take a look at Twitch’s face, there. I’d feel better if I knew I didn’t do any lasting damage.”

Gwen grinned and turned to grasp my chin and twist my head around. “Watch the cold doctor hands, asshole,” I gritted as she moved my head this way and that, casting a critical eye on my jaw.

“Besides having fallen out of the ugly tree and hitting every branch on the way down, he looks fine.”

Hank barked a laugh, but his next comment was lost as the serving girl Cabot had hired specifically for Gwen’s piano bar, Erika, knocked at the open door to Sera’s room. “Sorry to interrupt. Would you care for a drink, my Lady?”

“I’ll take the usual, Erika. Thank you!”

“Of course, my Lady.”

Hank pressed his lips together into a thin line and frowned thoughtfully at Gwen. “I haven’t ever heard of somebody called _my lady_ sitting on Sera’s floor with some asshole mercenary before.”

Gwen waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no titles like that where Twitch and I come from, but I can’t make them stop.”

“Where Twitch and you...?”

“This is who I was sent to protect, Hank,” I said with relish as his eyes slowly widened in horror. “Gwen Murray, Seeress of the Inquisition, Chief of the Skyhold Infirmary, and Herald of Blessed Andraste.”

Hank looked at Sera, who nodded with glee at his discomfiture.

“That’s a damn mouthful,” Gwen confided in Hank. “Just call me Gwen. Easier on everybody.”

“This place _is_ called the Herald’s Rest,” I added. “That implies she rests here, you know.”

“I was wrong,” Hank said, slowly, shaking his head. “I liked you better when you were quiet.”

Gwen fell over backwards laughing, causing first Sera and then Hank and I to laugh along with her.

After a minute, Gwen picked herself up off the floor and extended a hand to Sera, who took it and allowed Gwen to draw her to her feet. “I’m going upstairs to play for a bit. You want to come too?”

I nodded and started rolling back up the detritus of my old life. “Hank and I will be up in a minute.”

Gwen nodded and cocked an eye at Sera, who shook her head. Gwen shrugged, dropped Sera’s hand, and swept out of the room.

“They say she can see the future?” Hank whispered after Gwen left.

“It’s complicated,” I told him as I retied the rough bundle and tucked it under my arm. I’d leave it on the piano as Gwen played so I remembered to remind her about putting my phone on her charger. “Bottom line is, she does know what’s coming, and I do not.”

“She’s right creepy about it, too,” Sera added conspiratorially. “Knows lil things she shouldn’t.”

“And we’re going upstairs where she’s... playing?”

“Come on,” I replied, gesturing towards the door with a jerk of my chin. “It’ll be a story for the kids.”

It coaxed a smile from him, and he followed me out the door.

 

*

 

The story Hank took home to Brue and the kids was a good one. He was only in Skyhold for two nights, but he spent the first one in a tavern with the Herald of Andraste and her strange musical instrument. The next day, once he recovered from a bit of a hangover, he trained with the Chargers, had lunch with Opie’s two templars, and got a top-to-bottom tour of Skyhold, courtesy of Sera and myself. That evening, a rotating game of Wicked Grace was played in the Herald’s Rest with about a third of the Chargers and several notable guests.

“Oh, thank the Maker, a chance to win at cards,” Garrett Hawke announced, loudly, when he entered the tavern and saw our game. He had reached a tentative sort of friendship with Bull, once the two of them had a long talk about their individual opinions of the Qun and the death of the Arishok in Kirkwall.

“You’re just as likely to lose here as at your own table, prick,” Siren shot back.

Hawke rolled his eyes. “Not bloody likely. If any of you are _half_ as good at cheating as Varric, I’ll lick red lyrium.”

“No cheating at the Charger table,” Krem agreed, although it had the air of a warning as he glanced around meaningfully at the rest of us.

“You can have my seat, I’m not giving you my money,” Siren said, with more ire than she probably felt. Hawke being a blood mage had always rubbed her wrong, but she had spent many years training as a Templar, so she was doing pretty good with it, all things considered.

“That’s great, I don’t want to take your money,” Hawke agreed cheerfully. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Everybody laughed – including Siren – and Hawke settled gracelessly into her vacated chair. “Thanks for warming it up for me,” he called at her retreating form.

“Sit and spin, Hawke.”

As everyone laughed again, and Meck started dealing, Hank – who was sitting out this hand – leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Did she just say _Hawke_?”

“Hey, Garrett,” I called, drawing his eye. “This is my buddy, Hank. I was telling you about him the other day. He and Brue trained my weak ass in Denerim when I first got here.”

“Nice to meet you, Hank,” Hawke called back amiably. “Your money, I will take.”

“Maker, if I had it to lose, I happily would.”

“Has Gwen not ponied up your delivery fee?” I asked him. “I’ll spot your buy-in. If you’re leaving in the morning, you won’t have another chance to play Wicked Grace with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Hey now,” Hawke complained. “Easy with the titles. I don’t call you the Scapegrace of Rochester, do I? It ruins the vibe of the game.”

Hank gave me an awful lot of side eye, but he let me buy him into the game and won as much as he lost to Hawke.

“You’re friends with the Herald of Andraste and the Champion of Kirkwall,” Hank pronounced as I led him back to the Charger barracks, where he was crashing with us for his stay. “Nobody’s going to believe me.”

“Hawke’s just some kid from Lothering,” I countered. “And the Herald and I have a rather specific shared experience. We never would have been friends in our own world; we would have thought ourselves too different. But here? Here we are the same. It would be like two people from Denerim bumping into each other in some random Tevinter backwater... you would feel some kind of kinship from that shared heritage.”

“When are you going to leave your company?” he asked, nodding his head towards the barracks door and pulling me to a stop. “I know they’re a tight-knit bunch, and it seems like a good group, but Twitch... you’re still young enough to reach. You're in a spot where you could climb a lot higher than just this. And these guys aren’t going to track down Opie unless they get an order from the Inquisitor. What are the chances of that happening? It seems to me you’re going to have to choose between obligations.”

“I chose Opie once,” I answered slowly. Deliberately. This wasn’t something I needed to stop and consider. “I will choose her again, if it comes to that. You, and Senna, and Brue, and Opie... you all came _first_. I don’t want to leave the Chargers, and I don’t think it will come to that, but don’t worry about my priorities, Hank. Alright?”

He shook his head and started back towards the bunk room. “I still can’t believe you never got with Opie. How did you not know? You reek with it.”

“Man, fuck you.”

“I’m flattered, but you ought to save it for Ophelia.”

I only cussed at Hank in English after that. It didn’t make him laugh any less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there was a lot of talk about love in there, too. Apropos for the day!


	46. The Loss of Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rheyna!

I saw Hank off in the morning. He was met at the stable with the horse he’d ridden in on, slightly better tack, and a bag of gold for his trouble.

“Woah,” he said as he peered into the purse, emitting a low whistle. “Inquisition pays well, eh?”

“I think that was Gwen,” I admitted. “She’s got a good salary and nothing to spend it on, so she just throws it at people.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if Brue and I ever end up in another tight corner,” he laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder. “You’re the reason our boys are alive, Twitch. I hope you know that.”

“You and Brue are the reason I’m alive,” I countered. “It was the least I could do.”

Hank sighed and shook his head before swinging himself onto his saddle. “Figure shit out with Ophelia and come home, would ya? Even if it’s just a visit. I don’t care where you were born, you’re from Denerim, and we want you back.”

“Thanks, Hank. I’ll try.”

“That’s all anybody can do. Write Brue.”

“Will do. Be safe, stay warm.”

He nodded, wheeled towards the gate, and trotted out of Skyhold.

I wandered up to the wall and watched him go, lingering long after he disappeared from view.

Brue had named one of his sons after me. Hank thought I was a good man. The Tabris’ had taken me in. Natalia had made me her heir. Ophelia loved me. All of these amazing, resilient, trustworthy people saw the same thing in me I’d seen in them.

None of that erased my faults. None of that fixed my mistakes.

But maybe it justified forgiving them.

Maybe if I looked at the world like Hank did, I wouldn’t be so conflicted. Maybe shit would make more sense.

It was worth trying, at any rate.

I pounded my fist against the top of the wall, and then turned and made my way back down to where the Chargers were gathering for morning training. The Inquisition was still at war, we still had jobs to do. We still hadn’t found Opie, and the time for carting off after her had not arrived. For now, for maybe the first time, I had no overarching obligations, no grand scheme, no ulterior motive. There wasn’t some great plan I was building or goal I was working towards. 

For now, I was just a Charger. Just doing my job; protecting Gwen, going where the Chief or the Boss told me. Just Twitch.

Or, at least, that was the philosophy I was entertaining. I was quickly discovering that Gwen loved to shit on my dreams.

I hadn’t been paying much attention to gossip and such in the week after Hank left. Gwen had gotten my phone to charge, and my downtime was claimed by Krem and the new music I'd promised him. Gwen and I had wildly different tastes, and it wasn't long before the Chargers' morning training session was set to Tool. It hadn't taken much to convert Krem; the first time we sparred with _Forty-six & Two_ in the background, he was sold. Beyond that, I was focusing pretty diligently on being a fucking adult with his shit together, and it seemed to be working. I was keeping my nose clean, getting things done, and I went six solid days without anybody jacking me in the face.

And then Gwen swept into the ‘Rest one afternoon and dropped a glorious disaster in my lap.

“Who’s the mage, Perky?” Krem asked, immediately drawing my full attention. Varric’s nickname for Gwen had rubbed off on Bull, and it had only been a matter of time before it filtered down into the Charger vernacular.

Gwen was pressing a woman who looked vaguely familiar onto the stool we’d carved Gwen’s name into some time back. The newcomer had thick black hair that was haphazardly drawn back from her face, and bright eyes that seemed to hover on the verge of panic. There was something about the shape of her eyes and the tone to her skin that both struck me as familiar and implied she had some Rivaini in her family tree. She was dressed similarly to Gwen in a simple if well-made dress, ankle-length and warm but no where near warm enough to run around in this weather without a coat. That was probably why they were both coughing and puffing warm air into their hands with flushed cheeks and watering eyes.

I wasn’t sure why Krem thought she was a mage, but he’d gotten a look at her before she’d sat down and I really hadn’t.

“This is Rheyna,” Gwen answered. The name didn’t ring any bells. “Rheyna’s had a rough time of it and we need some help getting her back up to speed.”

I could almost see the postures straighten as Gwen’s words swept over the half-dozen or so Chargers lounging around the tavern. Squirrel slid out the door, presumably to start fetching the others.

“You’ve got a mission for us, Ma?” Krem asked, moving to sit next to Rheyna. “It’s about time.”

“Yeah, you could have sent us for that bag for Twitch, instead of the Jennies.”

Siren was itching to get out of Skyhold; she knew damn well the Jennies got it here faster than the Chargers could. I rolled my eyes and changed the subject rather than argue. “Or picked us to be your party on the way to the Arbor Wilds,” I added. I was pretty convinced the Inquisitor would make Gwen stay at home for the coming march, so I wasn’t too concerned about the idea.

“I might still be Fade-Stepping to the Arbor Wilds,” she confessed.

“That is OP as shit,” I shot back, in English so the abbreviation worked.

“I know, right?” she laughed. Unbelievable.

Krem was trying to follow along and got hung up on the internet shorthand, and Gwen helpfully attempted to explain. Skinner was having none of that.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” she interrupted. “You got a mission for us or not, Ma?”

“Why do they all keep calling you _ma_?” the newcomer – Rheyna – whispered in a broken sort of voice. All the enjoyment from a moment before was wiped clear, and as I watched her expression shifted from concern to curiosity. She made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up – something was not right with this girl.

“That is a _great question_ , Rheyna,” Gwen replied. Gwen’s tone wasn’t helping to set me at ease with the situation. She sounded like somebody trying to sooth a spooked animal, so she could get close enough to slide a leash around its neck. “And I’m going to have them tell you all about it. But first...” She stepped onto Krem’s chair – with a hand to Krem’s shoulder to keep her balance – and called out over the ambient tavern noise. “Horns up, Chargers! I’ve got a mission for you!”

Squirrel had been sending people in by twos and threes, so there were already enough of us present to put up a sizeable cheer. Krem helped Gwen step onto the table as we crowded around – although I noticed most of my company had a beer in hand as they gathered to listen. Priorities, and all.

“Alright, alright, alright, sit down,” Krem demanded, waving for people with chairs to use them, so the people in the back could see.

“This is Rheyna,” Gwen said once we’d complied. “Rheyna has a hell of a story, but she can’t it tell. Not yet. As far as anyone is concerned, Rheyna was asleep for the last _six years_ and caught in a shitty nightmare. She woke up this morning, and is discombobulated as fuck. Your mission is to keep her out of her own head.”

There’d been stories going around about the _Nightmare_ in Orlais, the monstrous demon who’d nearly trapped the Inquisitor in the Fade at Adamant, and they immediately sprung to mind with Gwen’s words. The Iron Bull wasn't going to like hearing about somebody who'd been trapped by a demon.

“Are you saying our mission is to sit in the ‘Rest and tell stories until Rheyna feels better?” Skinner asked.

“I am.”

“And what,” I added, slowly, as I tried to work through too many thoughts at once, “is our reward for this mission? I mean, beyond the excuse that gives us to be slackoffs for the next day or three.”

Gwen shrugged. “I’ll buy the beer. I trust Cabot to keep you all at a reasonable level of shitfaced.”

Everybody got in on the cheer – even me, I admit – but I also intended to pull Gwen aside and demand more answers. It was odd, how quickly I had moved past wanting to avoid all notice and into demanding special treatment from the Herald. But she wasn’t just the Herald to me – like I was sure I wasn’t just a Charger to her – and she was pushing for us to emphasize our heritage as hard as I’d used to hide it.

“Right, right, right, there’s a catch,” Gwen said, cutting through the commotion. “If you guys wreck anything in the ‘Rest or _anybody_ asks Rheyna about something that upsets her, _you_ all owe _me_ for the beer you drink.”

“That sounds like a challenge!” Dalish called, from somewhere off to my right. “You’re on!”

Gwen jumped down from the table during the associated raucous agreement, and said something to Rheyna. The other woman smiled up at Gwen and nodded, and Gwen patted her shoulder and then turned and searched the crowd. When her eyes landed on me, she bee-lined toward me. I put out an arm and she snagged it on the way by, spinning me around to follow her.

“She was Tranquil,” she whispered to me in English once we were away from the press of Chargers. I clenched my jaw to keep it from dropping open. “I brought her out of it but she’s the first one who hasn’t gone insane immediately. If she does anything scary, you are to will her _calm_ with every ounce of force you can muster. And then send somebody for me.”

Had the circumstances been different, I would have reflected some more on our shared heritage and mutual weirdness, and appreciated how it was allowing us to form this unique sort of friendship. As it was, the shit coming out of her mouth was _fucked up_ and kept me from anything more than fleeting thoughts of kinship.

“You healed a Tranquil?” I demanded, fighting to keep my voice low. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gwen grinned. “OP as shit, am I right?”

At least she knew it was insane. I shook my head. “So unfair.”

“If she wants to talk,” Gwen continued, drawing me further to the side, “that’s fine. Let her set the tone and her own pace. But if she starts talking about anything that sounds even remotely like _and then I was raped by a Templar and made Tranquil_ you send for me, stat.”

A surge of anger fought with sadness and the bittersweet memory of Amaranthine, and I couldn’t help but flinch. “Shitty. Thanks for the head’s up, Ma.”

Gwen patted me on the shoulder and then headed off towards the bar to soothe Cabot’s aggravation. Siren was setting up the format for the task; she stood, introduced herself to Rheyna, and launched into a story. She was outing Dalish – it was the story of our field trip to Gwen’s tower for target practice back before the trip to Halamshiral changed me world – and it seemed calculated to me. Knowing there was another mage in the midst might help set Rheyna at ease.

It was definitely a better move than introducing herself as a former Templar trainee who didn’t quite get through her vigil and left the Order before taking her draught of lyrium.

I picked my way through the crowd, only vaguely aware of Gwen exiting the tavern via the front door, to seat myself by Rheyna. She had been casting frequent glances my direction, as if keeping tabs on where I was in the crowd. I suspected Gwen’s last words to her before turning her over to us involved me and hopefully included the promise that if she felt my willpower on her it was _not demonic_.

It took the better part of half an hour – Siren had finished her story and Dalish had launched in with a retelling of it that emphasized _her archery_ instead of the vile slander Siren had spewed, which was making Rheyna’s smile seem a bit broader as she pieced together the dynamic – but I managed to snag a stool and perch right behind Rheyna’s right shoulder. She glanced back, met my eyes, and seemed to be torn between relief and concern; like she knew I would help her, but didn’t know how. I waited until Siren and Dalish started arguing over a facet of the story, and six other people jumped in to argue for or against the different perspectives.

“I’m like Gwen,” I whispered to Rheyna, and she straightened a little in her chair. “I don’t know how much you know about Gwen, but we have the same willpower trick. I can help you find calm if you need it. I don’t want to alarm you, but I’ve been told it feels like a demon. I promise I’m not. Dalish shot me in the face to prove it. You’re welcome to shoot me, as well, if it helps.”

She snorted a soft laugh and then nodded, and I eased back.

The next story was Krem’s: how he’d met the Chief, to explain why we referred to him as being one-eyed. Nobody wanted to ask Rheyna how much she knew about the Chargers or even the Inquisition – nobody wanted to ask her anything other than _can I get you something to eat or drink_ or whether she was comfortable or needed a stretch or knew where the privy was. A lot of our stories were going to be reiterations of common knowledge, but Rheyna didn’t seem to mind. Every so often she’d say a punchline at the same time as the storyteller, so we _knew_ she’d heard it before, but she seemed pleased at her fore knowledge.

We’d started talking about Gwen – our Ma – and Skinner was giving her account of being on hallway duty the night Gwen and Cullen came back early from Halamshiral when Gwen, fortuitously, walked back through.

She immediately knew what the story was, but Skinner didn’t pause and Gwen didn’t complain. She looked Rheyna straight in the eye, nodded to herself as if she’d seen what she’d wanted to, and then kept right on walking, charging up the stairs to the second floor and out of sight. “I regret nothing!” she called down as she turned the corner, presumably heading to the third floor and out onto the battlements.

We all laughed – even Rheyna. Maybe especially Rheyna. She seemed to feel every emotion _more_. If something was laughable, it was hilarious. If something was sad, it was devastating. If something was moving, it was profound.

We kept on long into the night. When Rheyna stretched and declared the need to sleep, Krem put a hand out to stop her. “Where are you staying?”

“I-“ she stopped, and then seemed staggered. “I-“

I stood to intervene.

“I have been staying with- with- with the rest of the Tranquil,” she confessed in a sudden rush, and all the faces around her were swept clean. No frowns, no smiles, no expressions other than polite attention. I had my left hand raised and hovering behind her, ready to step in and encourage calm. I wasn’t going to cut her off, though; not unless she seemed like she was winding herself up.

“They said they would find me another room with the mages, but I’m afraid-“ she stopped, swallowed thickly, nodded once, and then plunged on, “-I’m afraid to sleep in a room of mages again. I don’t want to risk waking up and thinking I’m- I’m- I’m back in Kirkwall.”

“Alright,” Siren said, getting a nod from Krem to take over. “It’s cold outside, else I would suggest a rooftop campout. Do you want to come crash with the Chargers? Do you want us to go get Gwen, so you could stay with her? What would make you comfortable?”

“You’re all... you’re all being very kind to me. I’m not sure what would make me comfortable. I just... I only just, uh, just woke up this morning.”

Krem met my eyes as I shot him my best _oh fuck_ look. He didn’t react but to slightly nod. The first cured Tranquil’s first night’s sleep was in Charger custody. No way _that_ could go disastrously.

Great.

Thanks, Ma.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, then,” Krem decided, standing up. “You’re coming with us. We’ve got more space than we need, there will be no problem fitting you in the Charger bunk room. We’ll set up a watch, so there will be some people awake at all times. They’ll keep an eye on you. If you wake up, there will be somebody nearby to help make sure you’re oriented.”

“Oh. Okay.” She nodded, and I let my hand slowly drop. “I... I think that sounds very smart. A good plan.”

“Whose faces would you recognize the most readily when you woke up?” Siren asked, gesturing around. “We can make sure there’s somebody you’ll know awake with each shift.”

“You,” Rheyna answered immediately. “Krem. Skinner. Dalish. Twitch.”

I’d been sitting behind her, so my inclusion earned me a few raised eyebrows; not from Siren or Krem, though, who both just nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s go get you settled.”

We dragged in an extra bed out of storage and did a quick rearrange so she could sleep closest to the door; she said she’d feel safest with an escape route. We set up a two-hour watch schedule with the people she'd named playing Team Captain and taking volunteers to fill out the watch. We didn’t expect to get ten hours of sleep, but the last two shifts would hover around the bunk house until Rheyna woke up; nobody wanted to volunteer to shake her awake.

I ended up with the third watch, and I was woken by Krem. He reported no movement from our charge – she seemed to be sleeping dreamlessly – and dropped into his bunk to fall immediately asleep as the rest of his watch quickly joined him.

I trundled around to wake up the others sitting watch with me. Grim slid out of bed and rose gracefully to his feet, but he’d always been an easy riser. Squirrel had glorious bedhead and a poor demeanor but voiced no complaints.  Doodles – one of Rocky’s sappers – was our fourth. Krem and I had decided to include a dwarf in each watch to emphasize the differences between the Chargers and the Circle. No dwarves were mages or Templars, that was for damned sure.

We took over the small circle of chairs in the middle of the room and continued the game of Wicked Grace that had been dealt, picking a seat at random and accepting the hand of cards sitting facedown at each. We’d talk in the morning about who had sat in each spot during watch, and laugh about the growing mess that was passed on to subsequent watches.

We stayed awake for our two hours, and then I shook awake Dalish. She was just settling in at the Wicked Grace table with her four-man party when the Keep started waking up around us. I abandoned the hope of more sleep and went in search of breakfast. The bunk room emptied out rapidly behind me, as the Chargers woke, remembered their charge, and snuck out to avoid waking her. The last watch – led by Skinner – went in to relieve Dalish’s watch in the middle of our morning training.

Rheyna woke up an hour later, and reported her dreams to Dalish.

“It was just Peace,” she said, sounding strangely awed. “He was thin and wan, but he sat with me all night. We didn’t speak or interact or even move. He just sat with me, and we rested.”

“Peace?” Dalish repeated carefully. “The spirit, Peace?”

“The spirit of Peace who healed my-“ Rheyna gestured at her forehead, where her sunburst used to be. “He sat with me.”

Dalish nodded. “I am glad of it. We should all take what peace we can.”

Our night had been sobering, and our next day was more subdued than the first. Rather than taking over the ‘Rest and drinking on Gwen’s tab, we walked Rheyna through a normal day as a Charger. We had different places in Skyhold that we posted ourselves, depending on where Gwen was and what she was doing. She helpfully had an appointment book in her office, so we sent somebody up to the infirmary every night to peek at it and plan our next day. We’d been told that the assassination plot against her had been unraveled, but nobody had told us to stop watching Gwen and nobody seemed to mind the work it entailed, so we were maintaining the status quo.

Much of our work involved loitering in seemingly random locations and keeping an eye on foot traffic, learning who was generally in each area at each time, and keeping more than half an eye on Gwen’s whereabouts. That led itself to a lot of leaning on walls and talking smack, so Rheyna tagging along and listening to our stories and shit talk wasn’t that much of a departure from the norm.

She took her meals with us. She slept in the bunkhouse. We integrated her into our routines. She found me three or four times a day, concern plastered across her face, eyes darting wildly, and would grip my wrist with both hands. The first time, she startled me, but it quickly became just another habit: Rheyna needed help, I would grab my sword hilt with one hand, she would wrap her hands around my other wrist, and I would meet her eyes and smile and focus on her feeling _calm_. After a long moment she would relax, smile, release my wrist, and wander off. The first few days, she’d say _thank you_ , but by the end of the week we didn’t bother with manners. It was just a thing we did.

It was like everybody taking care of Dalish after a bad fight, or leaving Stitches out of the guard rotation after he’d nursed somebody back to health. The Chief was gone and couldn’t formalize it, but Rheyna was just another Charger.

After three nights, she moved her things down to the bunkhouse, not that she had much. We adjusted the beds a bit, so hers looked permanent and not tacked-on. Stitches talked to the quartermaster and got her a footlocker to match the rest of ours.

After six nights, we stopped keeping our nightly watch. She hadn’t woken up once, and was adjusting to our schedule quickly.

After eight nights, we forgot Gwen had charged us with her distraction; she was just part of the company. We’d been spending our mornings playing some messed-up game of capture the flag in the lower levels of the keep, trying to help Gwen learn stealth and the rest of the skills she would need to stay alive in a squad. She had this plan to go to the Arbor Wilds, and as time went on it became more clear she didn’t care if she got the Inquisitor’s permission or not. I was hoping Adaar would come home and put a stop to it before the army deployed, since the Chargers had been told they were responsible for the protection of the Keep in the meantime.

When Rheyna woke up after the twelfth night in the Charger bunkhouse, it was with the most anxiety she’d had in a week.

“What’s bothering you today?” I asked over breakfast.

“The Iron Bull is arriving home today,” she answered, her eyes darting back and forth.

“Yeah? The Chief’s not bad. I mean, he looks scary, but he’s a big softie.”

“I’m... comfortable... with the Chargers. With where I sleep and... I’m afraid he’ll ask me to leave.”

Krem, who was seated across from us, shrugged. “He gets the final call on who is technically a Charger, but he’s reasonable. You’re already holding your own in training, it shouldn’t be too hard to convince him to keep you on.”

“Convince him?” she repeated. It clearly wasn’t as reassuring as Krem had hoped.

“I hate to ask you anything,” I said, drawing her attention away from Krem, “and don’t answer if it makes you uncomfortable, okay?” I waited for her to nod, and then pressed on. “Have you considered taking up magic again? That would impact what the Chief decides.”

She jerked her head up and down a couple of times in what I had to assume was meant to be a nod. “I was afraid, at first, but I think... I think I should start to learn again. Especially while... while Gwen is in Skyhold. I worry for my safety when she is not here.”

“Okay,” I agreed, putting a soft hand on her shoulder. “What sort of magic did you... do you want to focus on?”

“I was a healer,” she said, and Krem and I both froze.

“I think the Chief would be very pleased to help you learn healing,” Krem said, recovering quickly.

“Yeah, absolutely, and Anders would probably love to help you study.”

Rheyna nodded, a bit more smoothly this time, and finished her meal in silence. Krem and I exchanged some wide-eyed looks and tried to keep cool.

The Chief would bend over backwards to get a magical healer in the Chargers. It would open up an entire different realm of jobs.

We didn’t immediately get the chance to tell him when he rolled in, because apparently training Gwen for the Arbor Wilds was something we should have at least run past him. Adaar gave him a raft of shit for it, and shit rolls down hill.

“Your hands broke, Krem?” Bull thundered as he strode into the bunk room that afternoon. We were all in attendance, waiting for him to return.

“No, Chief,” our Lieutenant answered easily.

“Some reason why you wouldn’t want to talk to me about war games with Gwen?”

Krem, who was standing casually at the foot of his bunk, shrugged. “I don’t get to decide what she does, Chief. Above my pay grade. Last I knew, we were charged with keeping her safe. Teaching her how to walk quietly seemed like it fit that bill.”

The Iron Bull coughed a laugh and slung his pack off his shoulder. “Fair enough. Next time you’re doing something that is guaranteed to piss off the Boss, though, give me some warning. I walked into it blind at the gates.”

“Sorry Chief.”

“Anything else you’ve neglected to tell me?”

He was kidding – we could all see he didn't mean the question – but he could see on all of our faces that the answer was _yes_. He looked around and his face slowly fell.

“Wait, what? Seriously?”

“Chief, we-“

“Ma came to us,” I said, stepping forward to take the heat off Krem. Bull’s eye snapped to me and Krem eased back with a slow exhale. “She said she had a mission for us. It involved sitting in the tavern and telling stories in exchange for free beer, so if you think we would have considered turning it down, you have the wrong idea of who follows you.”

Bull chuckled to himself and waved me on.

“Turns out, she needed us to tell stories to the person she’d just healed, because this person – name’s Rheyna – needed to be kept out of her own head for awhile.”

He stopped laughing, but his expression was merely curious.

“We did what Ma asked. That night, we kept Rheyna here in the bunk room with us to be sure she slept alright. Eventually she just moved in and we want to keep her.”

The Iron Bull snorted. “What, like a puppy? That’s not how this works.”

“She was Tranquil, Chief,” I said, softly, and the room fell impossibly still. “Ma brought her out of Tranquility. There’s never been anybody else like her.”

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. The Chief was slowly studying each of us in turn.

“We’re a mercenary company,” he said after a long but not uncomfortable silence. “We don’t take on charity cases. I’ve never heard of a Tranquil being able to fight. What does she bring to the table?”

“She's been training with us. She won't be a burden. But Chief... she was a healer,” Krem answered, softly, and the Chief went still again. “She says she got her magic back, and she wants to start practicing again. Dalish is great, but a healer? Chief, that would-“

“Stitches?”

“Would make my job easier, Chief,” the chirurgeon said with a shrug. “I can spend more time brewing potions and swinging steel. I’m not one to protest an addition that might save lives. Maker knows I couldn’t have saved Twitch’s face.”

“Nobody could save  _that_ face,” Meck countered, and a laugh rippled across the room.

Bull sighed and dropped into a chair. “You talked to Gwen about this?”

Heads shook. “She checks in from time to time but says everything looks good,” Krem reported.

“What does Rheyna want? She in here?”

“She was real nervous to meet you,” I answered. “She’s waiting in the ‘Rest.”

Bull snorted. “Of course she is. Well, somebody get her in here.”

Squirrel was nearest the door and darted out. She was back within minutes, slipping back through the door and vanishing into the crowd as Rheyna pushed the door closed behind them.

“Hello, Rheyna,” the Chief rumbled. “I’m-“

“The Iron Bull,” she answered, clearly nervous. “I’m pleased to meet you, ser. Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

She shook her head, no. “Not of _you_.”

“But you're afraid. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid you’ll ask me to leave, ser.”

“Ask? I would be telling you to-“

“Ma said... _Gwen_ said I was one of her children now,” Rheyna interrupted, swaying a bit to the sides as she planted her heels more firmly on the stone floor. “She brought me to meet the others. She asked them to take care of me, to help me through my... my _awakening_.” She paused and swallowed but spoke again before the Chief could interject. “I’m safe here. If you _asked_ me to leave... I would have to decline. Don’t accept me, don’t call me one of your Chargers; I don’t care. But don’t ask me to leave.”

Bull’s eyebrow lifted as she fell silent. “Fair enough. This group is _The Bull’s Chargers_ , though. You couldn’t be one of them without understanding what it is to be one of a group. There’s a chain of command for a reason, and the reason isn’t my ego.”

Rheyna clutched her hands behind her back; from my vantage, it seemed like she was shaking like a leaf. She didn't back down, though. She took a steadying sort of breath and met Bull's eye. I wasn’t in a position to justify feeling proud of her, but fuck if I didn’t just swell with it. I saw Siren and Krem exchange smug sorts of smiles and I knew I wasn’t alone.

“I understand hierarchies, ser,” she said, softly. “I grew up in a Circle.“

“And?”

“I would not be opposed to following Krem, who in turn follows you.”

“That’s not exactly what I’m looking for.”

“I... cannot swear you my loyalty.” Her eyes dropped to the floor, and I was pretty sure I saw a tear splatter to the stones at her feet. She seemed to collect herself and looked back up at Bull, sitting in the middle of us. A glance around at the rest of the Chargers assured me everybody was giving Rheyna their best “you got this” look. She swallowed, hard, and continued when Bull stayed silent. “I am not yet well, ser. I am learning to be... whole... again. It is not easy. I do not wish to make a promise I cannot keep, and I do not want to be relied upon when I am not yet reliable. I am... mutable. Nebulous. I am inconsistent and very recently unstable. But I am _safe here_. And I am already steadier than I ever dreamed possible a mere week ago. I will continue to improve, but I can make _no promises_.”

She managed to keep her gaze locked with his for the entirety of her statement, and Bull sat with his chin in his fist as he listened. He rubbed one hand along his jaw line and regarded her with what seemed like deep thought. Slowly, Rheyna’s chin rose, and the tremble in her shoulders grew more apparent as she closed her eyes and waited.

“Well, shit,” Bull sighed, breaking the tension. “You’re the most honest one yet. Horns up, Rheyna. Welcome to the family.”

A cheer went up that startled Rheyna so badly she nearly fell over. I crossed the distance in four quick steps and put my hand out to her. She wrapped her hands around my wrist without looking, swaying gently on her feet. She blinked her eyes open a moment later, gracing me with a smile I could only describe as peaceful.

“Thanks, Twitch.”

“My pleasure, Rheyna. Horns up.”

Her smile widened. “Horns up.”


	47. One and the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Twitch is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things.  
> 1\. I'm going to be at PAX East. Are you coming? Want a hug? Come get a hug! Or a high five. Or a sternly delivered Iron Guard, to ward off PAX Pox.  
> 2\. I finished this beast today, thanks to a visit from our friendly neighborhood influenza bug. I've got the next chapter of Steel Your Heart drafted, and I'm working on another one-off for the Stand Your Ground section. So there's tons of stuff in the near future.  
> 3\. Did I mention I finished this beast? Chapter 50 is our end point. Hold on to your butts.

We had two days to burn before First Day, and the morning after would mark the deployment of the army to the Arbor Wilds. It was immediately announced to the Chargers that Gwen was, indeed, going along with the rest of the Inquisition, and it was in our best interests to stay out of Commander Cullen’s way as much as possible. The man was furious.

We were entrusted with the security of the Keep, with Enchanter Fiona and Warden Alistair leading auxiliary forces. The Iron Bull was spending his time with them moreso with us until the army left, making sure everyone was on the same page with plans. He made sure he had plenty of time to observe Rheyna as she interacted with the rest of the Chargers.

The night before First Day, he called us to order in the bunk room.

“We’re not observing the First Day purge this year,” he announced.

He was met with silence. It was a deeply set tradition for most of southern Thedas, and we’d never missed a First Day. We waited for him to explain.

He did not. After a long moment, he shrugged. “What? We’re not.”

“Thank you,” Rheyna’s voice ghosted up from somewhere in the back, and the implication hit me hard in the gut.

The last thing Rheyna needed to do was feel an obligation to purge herself of negative memories. She needed to be as insulated from those memories as possible until she was at a place that she could actually deal with them. The Chief’s announcement was solely for her benefit.

Old softie.

“So what are we doing instead?” Daft asked, conversationally.

“Keg stands,” I offered.

“I don’t know what that is, but I like the sound of it,” Bull shot back immediately.

We broke up a bit later, getting back into our normal routine. I wandered over to Bull.

“We’re gonna be _real_ obvious if we all just cross our arms and say ‘fuck your fun’ to the rest of the Inquisition.”

The Chief hunched his shoulders a bit, but his laugh was inaudible. “And we all know how much the Chargers hate fun.”

“I want to go see Gwen, at least. She’s never had a First Day before. Let whoever wants to go Purge, go Purge. We set up a rotation the first few nights Rheyna was with us, we can do it again. If she figures it out, she’ll feel better that she wasn’t costing us anything.”

“Is this one taking the place of that elf of yours?”

“Not in a thousand years, Chief.”

“You gonna cut and run after her again?”

“Probably.”

He snorted another laugh. “Well, Rheyna’s honesty is sure rubbing off on you.”

“There’s worse things to have rub off on a man.”

He shot me a loaded look and it was my turn to laugh.

“Alright. Chargers meet in the ‘Rest two hours past noon. Whatever you get up to before then is on you.”

“Good call, Chief.”

He swatted at me as I escaped, and his laugh chased me down the hall.

Squirrel and Skinner had taken Rheyna to meet Anders – the first time she’d gone looking for somebody outside of the Chargers since Gwen had brought her to us – and he quickly agreed to help her ease back into using magic. He only had a couple days before he was leaving for the Arbor Wilds with Hawke and Gwen, but he apparently set her up with homework that “another mage” could help with. Everyone agreed to pretend he wasn’t talking about Dalish.

She took whatever it was Anders told her to do to heart, and I ended up loitering around her as she spent nearly every waking hour that wasn’t occupied with obligations like eating or training, working through the mental and magical exercises he’d assigned her. She was learning archery, to pass as one of the scouts and help keep her safe, since mages make for the easiest targets. She was learning how to wear armor, similarly, when before she’d never had on anything heavier than Circle robes. Skinner was teaching her basic knife techniques, and Dalish would hunker down on a tower roof with her and, presumably, teach her how to hide her casting. We made Rheyna come with us to the hall for food and she was starting to take shifts around the keep to watch Gwen. Every other spare moment, she did her homework for Anders, and I lounged within a few paces.

She looked for me constantly, but we were down to only once or twice a day, now, that she became overwhelmed and reached out for my aid. Even then, it was simply a wildness to her eyes and a shakiness to her hands; no sign of her earlier panics.

The morning of First Day, that went right out the window.

“I can’t,” Rheyna’s voice in my ear drove me awake. She had her hands wrapped around my wrist, a vice grip from panic. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-“

“I’m up,” I answered, pushing myself upright. I laid my other hand on top of hers, and struggled to get the headspace to will her calm. “Rheyna, it’s fine, I’m here, you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. It’s fine, you’re fine, everything’s fine.”

“She’s leaving,” she answered, her breath slowing as her panic receded. “She’s leaving and the demons stay away _because she’s here_ and they know, _they know_ , and-“

“First, I’m not the person to talk to about this. I like mages and all, but I know fuck-all about magic.”

She snorted a laugh and leaned her head against my shoulder, nodding slightly.

“Okay. Second, there are going to be a sizable number of mages left here when the army leaves, including _Grand Enchanter_   _Fiona_ and if she doesn’t know how to keep you safe then we have much bigger problems.”

She relaxed further, her laugh becoming almost audible. “Right. You’re right.”

“Third, you’ve still got us. If you want us to set a watch and shake you awake every hour like you’ve had a head injury, we will. You’re not alone.”

“I almost...” she sighed, and buried her face in my shoulder. I shifted and wrapped my arm around her and waited her out. “I almost miss the templars, sometimes. They... they weren’t all bad.”

“You never _have_ to talk about it,” I told her, and she stiffened slightly. “If you ever _want_ to... I can tell you about my trip to Amaranthine. I will never pretend I understand, and honestly I’m glad I can’t. But I made a mad dash to Vigil’s Keep to save somebody from exactly what happened to you. I’m definitely sympathetic.”

“Opie, right?”

I nodded, confident she could feel the motion through my arm. “Yeah. Opie.”

“I heard one of the templars mention her name. She wasn’t... she isn’t... is she okay?”

“Yeah,” I answered, hoping more than trusting that the answer was honest. “Yeah, she’s fine. She’s in Nevarra, with the _mortalitasi_. There were templars talking about her?”

“Yes. One was. She is... she doesn’t scare me. She reminds me of some of the good ones, in Kirkwall. Like Carver or Thrask.”

“Skinny, black hair, green eyes, knobby elbows?”

She laughed again. “I didn’t see her elbows!”

“That’s Aillis,” I said, levering her upright to look at me. “She helped Opie get out of Ferelden, when the war started. She’s definitely one of the good ones. Siren is mostly a templar, too; did she tell you that?”

Rheyna nodded her head, _yes_. “She never has taken lyrium, though, I don’t know how much help she could be if I.... should I...”

“Right. How about we go meet Aillis today?”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“I don’t base decisions on wisdom, Rhenya. If there is one thing you should know about me, that’s it.”

She was laughing again, and it gave me a chance to stand up and pull my shit together for the day. It was early still – easily half the Chargers were still asleep – and I was dressed and sauntering out the door with Rheyna on my arm as the sun came up.

Aillis was awake, by chance, and Rheyna gathered up her courage and introduced herself to the templar with full disclosure. “I’m Rheyna, formerly of the Kirkwall Circle, and I’m the Tranquil that Gwen healed.”

“Well, hot damn,” Aillis drawled. “It’s not every day you meet a living legend. I’m Knight-Lieutenant Aillis.”

“Twitch said you helped his friend?”

“Enchanter Surana,” Aillis agreed readily. “She taught me more in a few weeks than I learned in two years in the monastery. Good woman, that. She could have turned Eamon and I to charcoal at a moment’s notice. Lucky for me, Eamon has balls of steel, and kept his cool when she realized we were following her.”

“Are you going with the army when it leaves?” I asked, before they could get too carried away with talking about Opie. It still stung to think of her, alone in Nevarra all this time.

“Nope,” AIllis sighed, tipping her head to indicate we should walk with her. We fell into step at her shoulder. “Eamon’s going, to help counter red templars and lead what few loyal Templars have come to Skyhold seeking asylum. I’m staying to maintain a chain of command and help direct defense.” She leaned towards Rheyna conspiratorially. “I drew the short straw.”

“That’s good,” I insisted, nudging Rheyna. “Rheyna grew up in a Circle, and has some concerns about demons when the keep is emptied.”

Aillis gave her an odd look. “I thought... I heard the Seekers learned about Tranquility when a mage trying to become a Seeker lost the ability to use magic.”

“Gwen did something to me,” Rheyna admitted softly. “Seeker Cassandra was there, so I have no fear of Gwen’s methods, but I am... I do not yet know my capabilities, but...” she lifted her right hand and a soft glow filled her palm. “I am not as strong as I once was, but how much weaker is yet to be proven.”

“Maker’s sweaty taint, that’s... I don’t even know what that is,” Aillis stammered, caught off guard. “You said you were Tranquil, so I assumed... were you Harrowed?”

“Yes,” Rheyna replied, simply.

“Who are you studying under?”

“No one, yet,” I butted in. I wasn’t sure that linking Rheyna with Anders was a good idea for the sake of Aillis’ peace of mind just yet. “When we get through this deployment, she was talking about getting into healing again.”

“The Inquisitor is a healer,” Aillis observed. “There’s not many left, anymore. I’m sure the mages will be eager to start training new healers once Corypheus is dealt with.”

“You’re... you’re probably right,” Rheyna agreed. “I... I just wanted to meet you, since I... I’ve had some, ah, negative interactions with Templars in the past, but I still believe... I always was made to believe I was safer with Templars around, so I... I wanted to...”

“If you ever want to come sit with me, you are more than welcome to,” Aillis interrupted, seeming to put her finger on the crux of the matter. “I’m sure Seeker Cassandra would be a bigger comfort than just some Templar, but while she’s away, I’m always available to you. Hell, if you have a bad night and want to sleep in a null field, a couple of us could set you up one.”

Rheyna shook her head, _no_. “I’m sure that would make any nightmare I had, worse.”

“Right,” Aillis quickly agreed. “Right, I’m sorry.”

They continued like that for awhile – Aillis seeming to put together Rheyna’s story from what the mage was leaving out more than what she was saying – until the time came for us to meet with the rest of the Chargers for our morning training. This seemed to surprise Aillis more than anything else. “You’re training with the Chargers?”

“I am a Charger,” Rheyna corrected. She even tipped her head up as she said it. “I’m not a full member yet, since I’m not completely healed yet, but someday I’ll hold my own.”

Aillis nodded as she clapped a hand to Rheyna’s shoulder. “Good for you, Enchanter. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Rheyna seemed to swell slightly as Aillis trotted off.

“Well done,” I said softly as we made our way to the southern courtyard, where the rest of our company was assembling for a quick session before the First Day activities started. “Two weeks ago, did you picture yourself chatting with a templar?”

She puffed out a loud breath. “No. Maker, no.”

“Proud of you, lady,” I told her, patting her arm.

“Says the man I woke up in a panic,” she sighed. “You’re too nice to me, Twitch.”

“Nah,” I waved off the complaint. “I’m too nice to Gwen, is what I am. She knows I’m sympathetic to mages.”

“You love Opie,” Rheyna asserted, rather out of the blue.

I shrugged. “Yup.”

“Good for you,” she said with a sharp sort of nod. “I hope you find her.”

“Me too,” I agreed, and then we were at the edge of the Charger formation and split up to find our respective spots.

Training was abbreviated, but Dalish took Rheyna up to the top of the Northern tower as soon as we were finished, leaving the rest of us free to pursue First Day however we chose. I immediately found Gwen in the main hall, and after reassuring her that everyone really was going to sit around and drink beer and air out the skeletons in their closet from the previous year, I went looking for the equipment for keg stands.

It was different here, but a pump is a pump and Morris the Quartermaster was able to point me in the right direction. I wasn’t entirely sure what the thing had been used for. I got it from the kitchen, though, so I was confident a thorough boiling and oiling would take care of any residual funk.

Making sure it worked required an untapped barrel of beer and a thirsty volunteer. When I finally got Cabot talked into signing over an entire barrel to the Chargers, the only possibly collaborator in attendance was the Iron Bull.

“Chief, help me figure this out,” I said, gesturing to the barrel with the pump.

It was one of the last clear memories I had. Our first attempt was a miserable failure, as the barrel got pressurized and started shooting beer around the room. Our second attempt meant with more success. By the third barrel, Cabot was interested in the process and willing to keep funding our endeavor in the name of wasting less beer.

Gwen showed up just as we were debuting the keg stand, somewhere around barrel five. She didn’t stay long, which was probably a good thing, since Bull and I had gone well past drunk into _belligerent_.

I blacked out somewhere near sunset, with only flashes of memory before and after.

The next day dawned cold and hard, and I woke just before the sun, still drunk.

I’d seen a _Mythbusters_ once, in a different lifetime, it felt, that said the best way to sober up was exercise. I rolled out of bed and hiked down to the courtyard where the higher ranking Inquisition members were mustering for the march.

I could say goodbye to Gwen, swing by the kitchen for water, maybe go up to Gwen’s apartment for a bath once I knew she and Cullen were gone, and then just keep moving. I might be functional by the time the rest of the Chargers got up and about.

Gwen was easy to find; I swore I could find her with my eyes closed, it was like I just _knew_ where she was. This morning, she had just been given a horse and was shamelessly bribing it with sugar lumps.

“You’re the color of honey,” she cooed at the little mare in English. The horse shook her head and then nosed Gwen in the chest, causing her to laugh and procure another lump of sugar. “I’m gonna call you Honey. Honey? That alright?”

“How are you this cheerful?” I asked, grabbing a hold of the horse’s stirrup to keep the ground at the correct level.

Gwen looked around for a moment, surprised, and then her face split into a broad grin. “Because I wasn’t teaching the Chargers how to keg stand last night. Idiot.” She said it fondly, and I had to shake my head at how quickly the playing field between us had leveled. She hadn’t ever treated the Chargers like lesser folk, but as soon as she learned where I was from I’d gone from _some dude_ to _confidante_ and _friend_ in a heartbeat.

“Ugh, God, that memory of Rocky upside down on the bar actually happened?”

She laughed, and the horse took a step towards her, looking for more sugar, pulling me off balance.

“It definitely did,” she said as I caught my footing. Definitely still drunk. “And why are you awake? I thought the Chargers were responsible for Skyhold while we were gone.”

“Us and the wardens and a chunk of mages, yeah.”

“Sooooo?”

I wanted to say, _same reason I came to find you in the main hall yesterday, stupid, I’m looking after you_. Instead, I managed the slightly more polite phrasing, “I wanted to see you off, okay?”

She seemed to read more than I had said into my words, although I was not at all sure that I hadn’t meant her to. I hadn’t ever asked her about my sword, about the weird Fade shit she does, about spirit healers, the things I needed to know about Anders and Hellen and now Rheyna. We’d talked so much and still there was so much I needed her to tell me. And if she didn’t come back from this battle, I wasn’t just shit out of luck, I was a _failure_.

She ducked around the horses’ head and placed a soft hand on my back. “Is everything okay?”

No. No, it wasn’t. “You’re going to war, Gwen,” I reminded her. “I was supposed to keep you alive. How can I do that when I’m here and you’re there?”

“Twitch,” she started, and then stopped. “Will,” she corrected herself. It was intentional; she wasn’t talking to the person who’d lived in Thedas for a decade, she was talking to the scared kid who’d taken Andraste’s hand to escape the conflagration at the top of the Pru. “She tasked you with making sure I was accepted into the Inquisition. Obviously we are all vulnerable here, like what happened to Jacqueline and Micahel, and she did something different with you and I to make sure we made it through safely. You’ve already done what you promised her, William. You’ve already fulfilled your part of the deal.”

This wasn’t how I meant to sober up, but it was definitely doing the trick.

“You think that?”

She nodded at me. “Do you ever... I don’t know, just _know_ things?”

It was so close to what I’d just been thinking – how could probably point to her in the dark – that I instantly agreed. “Gut feelings? Yeah?”

“I knew, somehow, that Patrick was dead,” she whispered, her head close to mine. “I knew that Cullen was alright when he sent me running away from those undead in the basement. And I know that you’ve done what you were supposed to do. There’s nothing else you can do for me – not in that sense. Now you’re my friend, the one person here who knows I was actually a giant fucking dork, and the only one who will laugh when I reference some random pop culture bullshit from back home. But none of that is an obligation. You’re free to live your life as you choose.”

There was too much in that statement for me to process. It simultaneously cut to the heart of my deepest anxiety and echoed thoughts I’d already entertained. “And you just _know_ all that?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

I wasn’t sure what I’d been looking for, but absolution sure wasn’t it. I’d take it, though. “Were you ever like this back home?”

She had to think about it for a minute, and it gave me a chance to try to order my own thoughts. She’d lived. She had the Inquisitor, herself, organizing her defense. I’d gotten her accepted by the Chargers, sure, but now? Now all I was doing was running around, trying to keep myself in position in case she fell. That wasn’t what Andraste had asked of me, if I was brutally honest with myself. Ten years of _nothing but this_ was evaporating off my shoulders and I was no where near sober enough to deal with it.

“Actually,” she answered at long last, “no. No, I don’t think so. I was lot more spastic back home.”

I nodded; it made sense with what I knew of her. “I wondered if She didn’t do something to you,” I admitted. She could do so much more than I could, than anyone else could. “Fuck with you somehow to make you something different. The whole Fade weirdness they talked about, how you had to stay away from the rifts... none of that applied to me. You’ve got to be something more.”

“I guess so.” If the words were noncommittal, the expression on her face wasn’t. She was just as aware of our differences as I was.

“Which means you have to be more careful than the rest of us,” I concluded. “We’re all outsiders, but you’re _more_ and this running into a war zone-“

“You don’t know the story I’m trying to change here,” she interrupted.

Visions of Hawke and the story he wove, how different his reality was to the game I’d played, danced through my mind. “No,” I agreed. “I don’t. But are you sure you’re supposed to?”

It didn’t trip her up, didn’t slow her down. “My _being here_ changed the story,” she countered easily. She’d clearly done a lot of thinking about this, where here I was only just starting to let myself consider it. “It’s impossible for me to keep things the same.”

She was right. She wasn’t supposed to be here, none of us were. But none of the rest of us had been put into the position she had. I was just here to support her; she was the Herald. She had an answer for everything, but shouldn’t she? “That’s fair, I suppose. Since She fucked with you, made you something more, you get to be the one to play God.”

She didn’t like that idea. “I’m not playing God, Will, I’m-“

“It’s Twitch, now,” I interrupted. She was right to address Will at the beginning of the conversation, but not anymore. Never again. I wasn’t twitchy when I was just Twitch; remembering Will was what brought the Twitch back. Something about this conversation, the inebriation leeching from my system, the urgency of this morning, made everything so clear. Why I was here, why _she_ was here, who we were... it made sense for the first time. “I’m going to take what you said as the simple truth. I’d be an idiot not to. If my obligation is fulfilled...” How the hell do you explain to somebody that you suddenly became a whole person, that something you’d been chasing had just fallen into your lap and your hunt was over? “...then I can let go of the me that answered to that other name. I’m a Charger, Gwen. My name is Twitch.”

“Twitch,” she agreed. I wasn’t sure if she understood how profound the moment was for me. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just... I don’t want you to think I’m playing God. I’m trying to prevent bad things from happening, trying to keep this world we’ve adopted as our own from going down the shitter like the last one did.”

It was semantics. She was hiding from the implication, not the act. “That sounds like playing God to me,” I countered, watching her closely to make sure my point landed. “But, if we’re being honest, I’m glad the person doing it is you. I don’t know what our God was doing when he let the world go to hell. I’ve got more faith in you.”

She paled, and I knew she had grasped what I’d been trying to tell her. I pushed myself away from the horse and clapped her shoulder as I started back towards the kitchen, my original goal. “Good luck, Ma,” I told her as she stared at me. “First drink’s on me when you get home.”

She nodded dumbly, still staring at me, and I pivoted and made my way through the crowd. Someone was calling for her, behind me, but for the first time...

...for the first time I didn’t care. She wasn’t my responsibility.

I was a Charger because I’d said I was, but I didn’t have to stay with them anymore to keep an eye on Gwen.

I was here in Skyhold because that’s where Gwen was taken, but nothing was pinning me here anymore.

Of course, I had a family in the Chargers. We’d been together for years, bled together, fought together, buried our fellows together. But I wasn’t _beholden_ to them anymore. They weren’t my ticket to repaying the woman who’d brought me here, because _that was repaid_.

I got something to eat at the kitchen, downed a large glass of water before starting in on my morning tea, and perched on the leftover stones heaped in the corner of the lowest courtyard, leftovers from rebuilding the towers. I saw the last of those leaving for the Arbor Wilds trickle out of the keep and watched the shadows slowly shrink as the sun rose to illuminate the inside of Skyhold.

For the very first time in my life, I felt free.

Gwen could live or die, and it wasn’t _my fault_. I could mourn her loss or celebrate her victory, but it wasn’t my burden to carry. The fight against Corypheus, the Inquisition itself, while still valid, was no longer an _obligation_ ; suddenly it was my _choice_.

The kid I had been when I came here had colored all the choices that the man I'd become had made, but for the first time they could be the same person. Everyone knew, now, what I was, who I was, what made me different. I didn’t have to lie, didn’t have to hide.

With all options suddenly becoming equal, I knew exactly what I needed to do.

I pushed off the rocks and made my way back to the bunkhouse. I dragged my heavy pack of letters out of the foot locker and set myself up in a quiet corner with a writing board and a clean sheet of paper. In English letters, for the first time in a decade, I carefully started my list.

 _Aeducan, Durin. Warrior (Shield). Denerim, marketplace; Gorim Saelac._  
_Amell, Solona. Mage (Healer). Hero of Ferelden._  
_Brosca (unknown)_  
_Cousland, Finn. Warrior (unknown). Arl of Denerim._

I would sell it to Gwen for her help finding Ophelia, when she got back. I had to believe she would come back.

She was Gwen. She was the bloody Herald of Andraste.

She was coming back.


	48. Inflating Inquisition Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another wartable mission!

By the time the Inquisitor returned to Skyhold – magically, without the army, and in a hell of a temper – I had my list written up for Gwen and, for the first time in a long time, no plan.

I had total faith in Gwen’s ability to find Ophelia. And that meant I also had faith in her willingness to _get_ Ophelia. I wasn’t entirely sure why she was looking for allies, but the simple fact that she was with the army in the Arbor Wilds meant she knew how to get what she wanted.

Instead of worrying about how I was going to get to Nevarra, I let it go. If Gwen sent the Chargers, I would go with the Chargers. If she just sent me, then she just sent me. One way or the other, I was going to find Ophelia, and until we knew precisely where she was and how to smoke her out, I was content to bide my time.

Rheyna was improving, slowly but surely. The Chargers did their job. I wrote Brue and asked him to thank Hank for helping slap some sense into me, but for the most part I simply existed.

We had a job to do as soon as the Inquisitor returned, though, and the Chief called us together for the briefing. He explained that while we had achieved our objectives at the Arbor Wilds, it wasn’t clear what Corypheus’ next plan was, and the entire army on the march back from the Dales would be a great time to strike at Skyhold.

“You’re going to go out and inflate our numbers,” he concluded. “Wear loud armor, put dummies on horses, whatever you can think to do. Watch for signs of spies and enemy scouts. The idea is to present a position of power.”

Rheyna stood, shakily, from her spot near the door. “Ser?”

“Rheyna,” the Chief acknowledged her, waving for her to speak.

“We had a trick, in the Circles, ser,” she said, softly. “We all did it, as apprentices. It’s not a very good illusion, but we would make a room look like it was empty when it wasn’t. I could make horses look like they had riders, as long as nobody thinks to look too close.”

“Could you teach... others... that trick?” Bull asked, just managing not to cant an eye towards Dalish.

Rheyna nodded.

“Sounds good. You ready to go out with the rest of them?”

She shrugged. “Now’s as good a time as any. Won’t know until I try.”

“Stick with Twitch,” he counseled, and we both nodded.

We rode around like assholes for three days. We had three times the horses as we needed, and Rheyna made it look like each one bore a rider. It looked normal to us, of course, but we were inside her illusion. The scouts Leliana had roaming around the area with us all agreed that there were no empty horses riding with us.

On the fourth day, a group of scouts tumbled out of the brush onto the ancient roadway we were riding down. They were led by somebody we saw a lot of in Halamshiral, a Dalish elf named Lyal. Lyal had this glamour on her in the army’s eyes – she’d been captured and gravely wounded in the Fallow Mire, rescued by the Inquisitor herself, and was healed by Gwen. Rumor was, she should have lost the leg, and yet instead she was one of Leliana’s most trusted scouts. She was the first sign, as far as most of the Inquisition rank-and-file were concerned, of the divinity of Gwen.

I saw her as a good indication Gwen had penicillin in her pack. Modern medicine looked like a miracle to anyone not exposed to it; if it kept Gwen alive I wasn’t one to bitch.

“We’ve got trouble,” Lyal announced. “Here we were all hoping this feint was unnecessary, but we’ve got Venatori to the east.”

“East?” Siren repeated, surprised. We hadn’t expected to actually find any Venatori, but having them on the Ferelden side of the mountains made the least sense.

Lyal shrugged. “I didn’t stop and ask them why or how. I’m just glad our searches have been thorough; we would have missed them otherwise. There’s too many for my band to take, but we can distract them while the Chargers sneak up from behind.”

“There’s not as many of us as you think,” I reminded her. “We’ll need to send for Krem and the rest of the company.”

She glanced around, blinked, and then laughed. “Brilliant. I left a team on the Venatori to mark their movements. You go fetch the rest of the Chargers and I’ll take my scouts around to the east edge of the Valley and wait for you.”

“On it,” Siren agreed, and the two groups split.

“Hold the illusion until we get back inside the gates,” I reminded Rheyna as we rode.

“I know, I know,” she countered, rolling her eyes. She was starting to develop a personality beyond _emotionally unstable_ and it was frankly fascinating to watch.

“How do you feel about a pitched battle with some Venatori?”

She shrugged, her concentration still focused on the illusion. “I’m not much help yet. I’ll do what I can.”

“Good woman,” Meck cheered from somewhere behind us, and Rheyna cracked a brief smile.

Krem was waiting for us in the courtyard when we rode back into the keep. We were almost three hours early coming in off our patrol, and the gate guard notified him of the discrepancy.

“What happened?” he asked, as his eyes swept down the column. He nodded to himself, having seen no injuries.

Siren gave him the terse report we’d gotten from Lyal, and within fifteen minute we were outfitted and rolling back down the flagstones towards the Venatori who were soon to become toast.

Rheyna was in deep discussion with Dalish, and I noticed she’d acquired a bow that looked nothing at all like the other mage’s “bow.” Instead, it was a near replica of Squirrel’s short bow. Rheyna was armored like a scout, as well – at a glance no one would guess she was a mage, which was precisely our intent.

Everybody knows, you take out the mages first. There was a good reason we played along with Dalish’s ridiculous attempts at deception.

The plan was simple, once we met back up with Lyal. The scouts would filter through the ravine, drawing the Venatori attention. We’d slip around behind them and charge as soon as the scouts “saw” the Venatori and prepared to attack.

As I heard it, it went off without a hitch.

I didn’t see it, though, since I was at the very back of the company with Rheyna.

I thought she’d protest when she realized I had hung back with her. I expected at least an eyeroll, which was rapidly becoming her go-to facial expression. I was ready for her to try to send me up with the others, tell me to _go do my job_ since she was so adamant about not being a burden.

Instead, she met my eye and put out a hand. I extended my arm and she curled her fingers around my bracer.

“Don’t do it unless I ask,” she whispered as we crept forward. “I want to know if I can do this on my own.”

“I’m here if you need me,” I replied. “And _only_ if you need me.”

She nodded and turned her attention to the front. I kept my eyes on her.

The sounds of combat raged ahead of us. She did _something_ with her free hand – a surge of blue, gone as quickly as it appeared – and then pulled us forward. She laid on her stomach at the top of the ravine, peering down at the battle below, and I watched as blue flare after blue flare appeared and vanished from her right hand. There was sweat peppering her brow and her face was fixed in a frown but her concentration never slipped.

Silence grew in the ravine below, and still her hand flashed blue. Krem called the all-clear and she eased back from the lip of the ravine, lips curled into a beatific smile.

“I did it,” she whispered.

“You did it,” I confirmed. My hand had never strayed to the hilt of my sword.

She nodded, sighed, and then passed out.

I’d seen Dalish pass out after a battle before – something about too much mana expended in too short of time turning into physical exhaustion – so I did a quick sweep of her throat for a pulse and checked to make sure she was breathing. Reassured she was fine – just unconscious – I grabbed her arm and pulled her into a fireman’s carry over my shoulders and hauled her out of the ravine.

“Stitches!” Siren shouted as I rejoined the rest of the Chargers. Skinner was leading her group through the piles of dead Venatori, slitting throats to be sure nobody was left alive to tell of our ruse, in case there were more of them creeping around. They were checking pockets and compiling a profile of the group, as well – rations, water supplies, orders, personal affects; anything to give an idea of whether this bunch was on its own or a splinter off a bigger group.

“Rheyna!” more than one voice called in concern.

Dalish strode over, ducked to peer up at Rheyna’s face, and then tousled her hair with a chuckle. “She’s fine. Wiped herself out.”

More than one sigh of relief was audible to me, and I wished Rheyna had been awake to hear the concern the rest of the Chargers held for her.

Stitches gestured for me to hand her over, and I complied happily, trotting over to help Meck and Grim drag corpses into a row for a final, thorough looting before we heaved them onto a pyre.

Grim tapped my shoulder, and when I looked over, showed me a gaping rent in the leather covering the inside of his arm. There was fresh blood around it, but the skin beneath was whole. He tipped her head towards Rheyna, grinned, and went back to work.

There were only some bruises left, in terms of Charger injuries; anything that bled had vanished almost as soon as it had been dealt.

For only having a couple of weeks of practice under her belt, Rheyna had already made a massive change in the way the Chargers did business.

We hauled her – and our stash – back to Skyhold, letting Krem take the findings into the main hall. Dalish and Stitches had conjured up a restorative, for those times that Dalish passed out post-battle, but we opted not to give it to Rheyna.

Let the girl sleep.

We had plans to hike out in the morning, and follow up on the leads provided by the dead Venatori, but we opted to delay just long enough to bring Rheyna back up to speed.

She woke with the dawn, and was confused for a moment as she took in her surroundings.

“I... what happened?”

“Good morning, Rheyna!” Daft called as she fought out of her blankets.

“We decided to just let you sleep,” I assured her as she sat up and took stock of her situation. “Squirrel and Siren got you cleaned up and put to bed. It’s first light, so you weren’t asleep too long – the rest of yesterday and last night. How are you feeling?”

She rubbed a hand down her face, blinked at me, and then grinned. “I feel fantastic.”

“Good! We’ve got a lead on whatever it was the Venatori were after, and we’re to go off hunting today. Care to join us? Could be a fight, could be nothing.”

Rheyna nodded and pushed to her feet. “I will come, thank you. Did you delay? For me?”

“Only an hour or so,” Krem reassured her, tossing her the restorative Stitches and Dalish had decided to hold off on the day before. “That should help bring your mana back, if you need it. Stitches brews it up for Dalish pretty regularly. As I understand it, there’s no lyrium in it, just herbs and shit.”

“Wonderful, thank you.”

Half an hour later, we’re trotting down the road towards the cave system indicated on the Venatori map, fully aware we’re late for the meeting with Lyal and her scouts, and nobody really giving a shit. We had a healer – a mage healer! – and if waiting an hour meant she was well rested, then that hour might mean the difference between life and death for one of our fellows.

It was worth every second.

“How are you doing?” I asked her as we jogged towards our rendezvous.

“Great,” she answered, flashing me a bright smile. “Every day that passes is easier. Every morning I wake up and nothing terrible has happened and the fear takes another step back. I almost feel like I know what I’m doing.”

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” I agreed, and she chuckled.

We didn’t have much more time to talk, as we came across Lyal’s scouting party, in full flight towards us.

“Maker’s anus, where in the bloody Void have you been?” one of them panted.

“What happened?” Krem demanded.

“Demons,” Lyal spat, stumbling to the fore. “Damned cave is chock full of them.”

I put a hand to Rheyna’s back as her face went pale.

“Rift?” Siren asked.

Lyal shook her head. “Not as far as I can tell. They look old, like someone summoned them and died in the process. I’m not so good with runing, but it looks like there’s some kind of seal on the entrance, keeping them in.”

“We’ve fought demons before,” I whispered to Rheyna, while Krem and Lyal sketched plans in the dirt. “You can sit this one out. Nobody in their right mind would ask you to go in there.”

She nodded. “I know. You all have taken such good care of me... this is the only way I can repay that. I go where you go.”

“Rheyna-“

“Twitch.” She didn’t just meet my eye, she _glared_ at me. Something about the expression tickled some deep memory in the back of my mind, but the familiarity was gone was quickly as it came. “I am nothing if not overly cautious, alright? If I knew I couldn’t do this, I wouldn’t try.”

“Duly noted,” I held her gaze until she nodded and turned her attention back to Krem and Lyal. “You know how to find me if you need me.”

“I do,” she agreed softly, reaching out to grip my wrist for just a second. I stood and moved closer to where the plans were being made.

“Nothing for it but to go in,” Krem said with a sigh. “Alright, Chargers, you know this drill. Shields front, bows back, blades in between.”

After the fight with Envy after our scouting mission to Therinfall, a cave full of rage demons wouldn’t seem to be too much of a hassle. On the surface, at least, it should have been easy.

As soon as we filed into the cave, however, they flocked to us. It was like they were starving for human interaction. I decided I didn’t want to know enough about demons to be able to understand their motivations.

Siren went down pretty quickly; I saw her on her feet about five minutes later, so I knew Rheyna was still doing her job, still holding it together. Meck got bounced against the cave wall hard enough that his eyes rolled up and he convulsed for a second before blacking out; he was waiting for us outside the cave when it was all said and done, on his feet and no worse for wear.

The fight was wave after wave of demons, but they were all Rage, all reckless, and all easily dispatched. There were just so _many_ that it seemed like we were in there all day. By the time we hit the last cavern, we were all panting and out of breath. We made another sweep on the way out, and then Lyal’s team looted the cave, stripping everything that might be worth something. Sacks of mushrooms and ore were dragged out as well as the chests that had been hidden in the recesses of the deepest room.

“How’d you do?” I asked Rheyna as we reconvened in the daylight. It had felt like all damn day, but we’d only been inside an hour at most. I found her sitting on a smallish sort of boulder not far from the cave entrance, catching her breath.

“I’m awake this time,” she replied, laughing easily despite being remarkably pale.

“No casualties?”

She shook her head. “Everybody who walked in, walked out.”

“What are you thinking?” I pressed.

She rolled her eyes at me, and I laughed as I dropped to the ground beside the rock she was using for a chair. “I’m thinking I need some more time spent dedicated to magic. There’s just _so many_ of you. I could barely keep up. When the army gets back, and things calm down a bit, I’ll ask Anders for more direct teaching.”

“You’re already more than enough by our standards, but nobody can fault you for wanting to get better.”

“I will get better,” she agreed. “And then it will be easier to pay the Chargers back for my life.”

“We didn’t save your life,” I countered, swatting at her feet. “We just distracted you from it for awhile.”

“Same difference, Twitch,” she pronounced. “Same difference.”


	49. Mess is Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our girl gets a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it should go without saying, but this chapter will spoil the shit out of Keep to the Stars. If you haven't FINISHED Keep to the Stars, for the love of god, go do that first.

“Ma’s home!” Daft’s voice carried down the hallway to us.

“About fucking time,” Siren grunted, pushing out of her chair. “What was the army doing, taking the scenic route back?”

“I’m sure taking care of the dead and carting back the wounded didn’t cost any time at all,” Skinner snarked right back at her. We knew Siren was itching to get out of Skyhold, but her shitty attitude was starting to rub everyone the wrong way.

She didn’t have a reply for Skinner, and we tromped out of our bunk room to witness the reunion at the gates. The Inquisitor was handing Gwen off to Dorian, and then she was passed from person to person for awhile, until Alistair seemed dedicated to monopolizing the rest of her time. I got bored quickly – our goodbye two weeks prior had solidified her as a force of nature in my mind, _of course_ she came home safely – and went back inside.

We took the rest of the day off – our reward for the dedicated defense of Skyhold in the army’s absence.

The next day, all hell broke loose.

We’d just finished training - Rheyna had only taken four or five steps away from the group, heading off to speak with Anders - when the entire fortress shook. A green light flashed across Skyhold, south to north, and then a few seconds later a terrible sort of rolling thunder echoed off the walls.

We’d heard it before.

“The Breach!” someone called, from the top of the wall, pointing south. “The Breach has opened!”

We were all running for the walls, then, climbing onto the towers and opening windows to stare, open-mouth and chagrined, at the scene swirling to life over the ruins of Haven, far to our south.

Orders started pouring out of the main hall within the hour. The Inquisitor and her team were riding out in the morning. Sutherland and some of Charter’s agents were leaving that afternoon to scout the path. Cullen was in charge of Skyhold while the Inquisitor was away – we were under martial law. Ambassador Montilyet was leading all foreign dignitaries back to Val Royeaux, to minimize civilians in the keep. Inquisition staff was staying, but all nobility were out. Gwen was strictly forbidden from leaving Skyhold.

The Chargers were staying behind, as well.

“What the fuck, Chief,” Siren ranted when he gave us our orders. “The army is tired, they should stay, but _we should be helping_. You’ve had us stuck in this damn keep for months, we’re _worthless_ here. We should be with _you_.”

“You should do whatever the fuck I say you should do,” Bull countered, and Siren’s jaw snapped shut. “Now is not the time for sedition. We’ve almost finished what we came here to do, and then we’ll see about new employment.”

He looked around the room, murder in his one good eye. “Anybody else? We signed on to the Inquisition to close the Breach and keep the Qun from feeling like it needed to invade to keep shit together. Unless I’m missing something, both of those options are still on the table. The Inquisitor is the Boss. I listen to her, and you listen to me. And if that’s not good for you, _there’s the fucking door_.”

Nobody moved. The Chief gave us all a moment to make up our minds, grimly nodded, and then continued. “Nobody attacked Skyhold while the army was at the Arbor Wilds. Does that mean guarding the keep was unnecessary? No. Being a part of something like this isn’t the same as being a mercenary company out on our own, and we knew that when we signed on. Sometimes we stay behind for insurance while somebody else marches. We’re not in this for glory. We’re not in this for personal gain. We’re in this because it’s hard to make money when the whole world’s full of fucking _demons_. Once _that_ is off the table, we can go back to killing for sport or whatever it is you’re itching to go do.”

Siren managed to look embarrassed, which was more than I expected from her.

The Chief’s ass-chewing served its purpose, though. We doubled down on defense around the keep. I was walking a patrol with Squirrel when Ambassador Montilyet left the next morning, with the Inquisitor’s team following soon after. I heard Gwen was camped out in the ‘Rest with Hawke and Anders, but I never got a chance to crash that party. Rheyna was doing well, but keeping an eye on me; I stayed close to her as much as possible. Everybody was on edge, though; she wasn’t alone in her anxiety. The prevailing theory was that the Breach was a feint to lure the Inquisitor out of Skyhold, so Corypheus and/or his dragon could swoop in and capture any of the magical resources the Inquisition had kept from him.

I was pretty sure there was an eluvian in Skyhold – Merrill and Morrigan together talking about mirrors was a damning sign if ever there was one – and Gwen’s Fade weirdness had to be alluring as well, if he knew about it. Rumors were starting to circulate that Gwen had stared down Corypheus at the Arbor Wilds, but I hadn’t had a chance to pin her down and get the whole story out of her.

The next day dawned cold and hard; it had the sort of brittleness to the edges that comes with a frost or brewing storm. The Breach swirled, green electricity and angry clouds, just above the horizon to the south. The Inquisitor intended to close it today; everybody was keeping an eye to the south with the hope of seeing it slam shut.

The day was three hours old when an ear-shattering blast rocked the keep.

I was on the western wall, near the northern-most tower. I had a clear view of the culprit: a rift cracked open in the courtyard, just in front of the gates.

We were trapped inside, with no Inquisitor around to close it. It wouldn’t be a major issue if the new rift had been mostly inert, but it immediately started vomiting out demons. I saw a dozen spawn before a beam of sickly green energy shot towards me, puddling on the top of the wall, and then coalescing into a spirit of rage.

I had my shield up, out, and over my head before it could bring both fists down upon me. The impact drove me to one knee, and it was a moment before I could pull myself together enough to surge to my feet. I yanked my sword out of my scabbard just in time to see a foot of steel emerge from the demon’s chest. The fire making up its skin sputtered, sizzled, and then went out; it collapsed into a ball of goop at my feet, Krem’s sword still held out where he’d impaled the demon.

“Thanks, Krem.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Twitch.”

I nodded, and we turned just in time to see another puddle coalesce on the wall, and threw ourselves at it.

Two more rage demons were quickly dispatched before we ran into Daft and Stitches, working their way down the wall from the other direction. We shifted into a more defensive stance as the next puddle of demon appeared at our feet.

A Greater Terror rose out of the stones of the wall, and I heard my own sharp intake of breath echoed by the three men around me.

Krem took a step forward, when the demon shuddered, slumped over, and then collapsed.

“The fuck?”

“ _Gwen!”_

I looked down at the rift, dread filling my gut, and saw her standing beside it. Arms outstretched, hands reaching, grasping. The rift flared, like the one at the crossroads had when the Inquisitor disrupted it, and then I noticed the demons were being sucked back in.

Crazy bitch was saving us.

“Gwen!” Cullen shouted again, and movement near the top of the wall drew my eye. He appeared at the top of the stairs leading down to the courtyard, but I could already tell he wouldn’t get there in time.

Gwen was pulled off her feet, then, her limbs jerking away from her body in a horrible parody of the Vitruvian Man. I could see the pain erupt on her features, the blood drain from her face. She was looking right at Cullen, as the green energy of the rift seemed to be pulling her into the Fade.

“Gwen!” Cullen’s voice echoed against the walls of the keep, silent but for the eerie rumble of the rift, and his word was more a scream than a shout, now.

Gwen smiled at him, and then her features disappeared in a burst of green as the rift detonated.

“NO!” Cullen’s wail reverberated through Skyhold. I felt my knees hit the stone of the wall as Gwen’s eyes stared sightlessly through the twisting energies of the Veil resealing itself, the air becoming whole once more. Her body went limp and then started to slowly descend – as if gravity wasn’t immediately returning  – when another flash of light appeared around her.

There was a hand gripping my shoulder as I clung to the side of the wall, staring at the spectacle in the courtyard.

The blonde woman from the Pru was in the air around Gwen; Gwen’s body was only vaguely visible, a shadow inside the being of light surrounding her.

When she spoke, it was in Gwen’s voice, but somehow not; as if a hundred Gwens were all speaking in slightly different tones, all at once. It definitely was not the voice she'd used when she spoke to me.

“ _This woman comes back to you now as my Herald in truth_ ,” she announced, in a voice that rattled the stones of the keep. “ _I send her back to you with a message for my daughter, your next Divine_.”

Andraste turned, and extended her arms towards Leliana, who was standing near the foot of the stairs leading up to the main hall. “ _My Nightingale, my child... it is to be your task to lead my Chantry back into the Light. In your hands may the world find balance once more_.”

Leliana stumbled forward a few paces and tumbled to her knees.

“ _Will you accept this burden_?”

Anything the Nightingale might have said was indecipherable at this distance, but the image of Andraste smiled at her the way she had at me, when I’d taken her hand in the Pru. Then she vanished.

Gwen’s form hung motionless in the air for another moment longer, and then toppled to the ground. Cullen hadn’t stopped moving forward, and darted the last few feet to catch her before she landed. They dropped slowly to the cobblestones, her limp form mostly hidden under his bowed head.

As her feet touched the cobblestones, another rumble shook the keep, as if the weight of her was more than the stones could hold. It was accompanied by a flash of light to the south, drawing our eyes up just in time to see the Breach vanish in a series of green explosions as a massive dust cloud rose up from below where it had been. The sound caught up many long seconds later, as a sharp crack and then long roll of thunder.

For the space of two long breaths, everything was still.

“The fuck just happened?” Daft breathed. He seemed to be the owner of the hand that had an iron grip on my shoulder.

“That was Andraste,” I whispered without turning around. “That was who brought me here, who brought Gwen here. I think She just-“

“FETCH ANDERS!” Cullen bellowed, sitting upright and pitching his voice away from Gwen’s still form. Leliana was stumbling towards them, barely keeping her feet. “NOW!” Soldiers scattered in all directions as Leliana hunched over Gwen’s head.

“Yeah. I think she just brought Gwen back to life.”

“She _what_?”

“Would he be asking for Anders if she was dead?”

“Maybe.”

I heard a scuffle behind me and assumed Stitches had clocked Daft and the blow had been returned. Krem had his hand on my shoulder, although whether to steady me or him I wasn’t sure.

Leliana was cupping Gwen’s face, and I was pretty sure I could see Gwen’s mouth moving. After another few moments, Cullen turned away and bellowed for Anders once more.

“Let’s go get Rheyna, in case something happened to Anders,” Daft suggested. “I think she was-“

“Anders is coming, look,” Krem said, drawing our attention to the main hall doors. The renegade healer was taking the stairs two and three at a time in his haste and quickly made his way to where Gwen was still sprawled inelegantly between Leliana and Cullen.

“We need to get moving,” Krem said, pulling me to my feet. “When would you attack, if you were Venatori spying on Skyhold?”

“Right the fuck now,” I agreed, and fell into step behind my Lieutenant.

I snagged Aillis on our way out the gate, waved down Killeen, and within ten minutes we had the guard rotation re-established. Killeen was waiting for Cullen when he returned to duty, with a status report thorough enough for even his liking. Rheyna attached herself to Anders, and the two of them roamed through the keep, healing anyone who had taken injury in the brief but vicious onslaught of demons.

It was hours before the raven winging in from the south calmed our apprehensions and allowed Cullen to call for us to stand down.

The Nightingale sang the news down from her balcony, I heard later: _Corypheus is dead_. I was out of ear shot at the time; I had more pressing concerns.

I was sitting on the couch in Gwen’s room, feet on the upholstered arm, listening to her describe her meeting with the Maker.

“This is fucked. You know that, right? That this entire situation is unspeakably fucked up?”

“I know,” she laughed, sinking deeper into her pillows. She looked exhausted, but I’d been in those shoes before. The adrenaline shock of _almost dying but not_  had whipped my ass, I couldn’t imagine how much worse it was when the death wasn’t _almost_ but rather _reversed_. “More than anything else, though, I was _relieved_ when I saw Her and said Her name and She said _yes_. I was so worried that I’d put it together wrong, that we’d gone about everything _wrong_ and to find out I’d put my faith in the right place…? Oh, man, it was a weight off my shoulders.”

“Her voice was different,” I complained, and Gwen laughed again.

“It wasn’t, wherever I was before. What you heard was _my_ voice. For good reason, since I’m supposed to be Her voice now. But wherever I was before then? Definitely Her old voice.”

“So now what?” I asked, locking my fingers behind my head and slouching on her couch.

Gwen shrugged. “Hellen comes home. I get her good and mad at Solas. We make Leliana the new Divine. And we start prepping for the shit to come.”

“Seriously? We’re not done _yet_? And what do you mean, mad at Solas? Am I finally going to find out why Cindy kept dressing him and Blackwall in yellow plaid and saying it was punishment for the lying liars who lie?”

Gwen laughed so hard she snorted, put a rib out of place, fell over in bed, and then laughed more. I had to wait a good ten minutes before she was put together enough to answer.

“Keep this to yourself for now, a’ight?”

I shrugged. “Whatever. I managed to not tell anybody I was an alien for ten years. There’s nothing you can tell me that’s a worse secret than _that_.”

“Solas is Fen’Harel.”

“What?”

“It was his orb that Corypheus used to open the Breach, because it was his orb that created the Veil to begin with, to imprison the Evanuris after they murdered Mythal.”

“ _What_?”

“Mythal, by the way, is the spirit inhabiting Flemeth.”

Hawke’s story spring to mind and I surged to my feet without realizing it. “ ** _What?_** ”

“Solas intends to tear down the Veil and return the world to the way it was in the time of the elves, prior to the fall of Arlathan. And we’re going to stop him.”

I dropped back onto the couch. “We’re going to war against a god. That’s what you’re saying.”

“The Evanuris weren’t gods. They were just powerful mages in a world where the Fade was a… what did he call it… a _state of nature, like the wind_. They were men and women, and technically immortal, and really powerful casters, but not _gods_.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks for that fucking distinction,” I sighed. “That makes everything so much better.”

“And _we're_ not going to war. Hellen’s going to declare war on him but I’m going to redeem him.”

“Of fucking _course_ you are.”

“And since it’s _Solas_ , he knows everything about the Inquisition. So we need new allies. This is where you come in.”

I sat bolt upright on the couch. “I made a list for you.”

She grinned. “I figured you would.”

“I can rattle it off right now. I didn’t even need to write it down. But you know the one I want to find.”

“I know. Leliana is going to Val Royeaux to be coronated as the Divine, and she should be making Charter the Seneschal in her stead. I’ll give Charter your list, and we’ll start rounding people up.”

“That sounds a bit more sinister than I’d like, _rounding people up_. How about we politely request a meet-cute?”

She laughed until she cried again, holding her ribs and gasping profanities between gales of giggles. I felt no remorse.

“We can do it your way,” she agreed gamely once she’d pulled her shit back together. “Grab some paper on my desk and make me up the list, and I can introduce the idea to Leliana and Charter tomorrow while we’re waiting for Hellen to get home.”

I was sitting at her desk, diligently scribbling away, when the door popped open and Garrett Hawke strode in.

“Oh, good, you’re both here. We have a fucking problem.”

“Hi, Hawke,” Gwen chirped without budging from her bed, waving weakly at him. “I’m stuck in bed, but we can talk!”

The door shut behind him and he dropped into the spot on the couch I’d just vacated, frowning down at the cushion for a moment.

“It’s warm because Twitch was just sitting there,” Gwen informed him. He smiled briefly before his expression cleared and he was all business again.

“You healed a Tranquil.”

“I did.”

“And you-“ he indicated me “-agreed to babysit her. Keep her from going crazy.”

“I did,” I echoed Gwen and continued writing.

“Where’s the problem, Garrett?” Gwen asked.

“I just met her. Rheyna. She’s with Anders. Helping _heal_.”

“Is she?” Gwen brightened. “Oh! Good for her!”

“Tranquil. From Kirkwall. Named Rheyna.” He ticked off the points of his fingers. “And nobody once thought to ask me about her?”

Gwen and I exchanged glances. “I mean, Anders brought her to me?” Gwen hazarded, making a show of shrugging. “It's not like I picked her. I figured he would have known if there was something-“

“Do you know what Rheyna’s last name is?” Hawke interrupted.

“No?”

He looked at me and I shook my head. “She never said.”

“Because she doesn’t _know_. Do you know who knows? I fucking do. Do you know why I know?”

“Why do you know, Hawke?” Gwen asked wearily.

“Because she’s a dead fucking ringer for my dead fucking sister, that’s why.”

Gwen surged out of her pillows as I dropped the quill and splattered ink over the list I was writing.

“What? Oh, no, Garrett, I’m so sorry, are you-“

“She’s Rheyna _Amell_ ,” Garrett told us, softly. “She’s the second daughter of my mother’s cousin, Revka Amell, and she’s the sister of Warden Commander Solona Amell. And she looks. Just. Like. Bethy.”

I blew out a long breath and leaned back in the chair while Gwen stared at Hawke over the hands she’d clapped to her mouth in surprise. I’d thought she’d seemed familiar, but I didn’t realize I was recognizing a character in the video game I’d played more than a decade before.

“What did you do?” Gwen breathed.

“Nothing. There are differences. Enough differences to save my sanity. Rheyna’s father was Rivaini, while Bethany’s was Fereldan. The Amell stamp is strong but their coloring is different, the shape of their eyes slightly off. It's enough.”

“Did you say anything to her?”

“I asked Anders to introduce us. She seemed nervous, but I suppose that’s to be expected, being formerly Tranquil and being faced with a dangerous maleficarum.”

He sighed and dropped his head to the back of the couch. “I have so little family left. And all I could think when I looked in those eyes was, _better she not know. Better she hide from this curse_.”

“Hawke,” Gwen started, but I interrupted her. “Do you think anything that could happen to her by being associated with you is worse than what she already lived through?”

Both of them snapped their eyes up to me. I just shrugged. “She’s been taken from her family. She was raised in the _Gallows_ for fucks sake. She doesn’t know her name, her legacy. She doesn’t know she’s related to the Champion of Fucking Kirkwall, doesn’t know she has a right to an estate in Hightown. She was raped by a Templar. She was made Tranquil. She spent _six years_ Tranquil. And now she’s having to relearn every aspect of humanity. And your family members got, what? A quick death? Sounds like a better fucking deal. I’ll bet Bethany would rather take the Ogre than Rheyna’s lot any day.”

Gwen hissed out a dismayed sort of sound, but I’d managed to deflate Hawke. “Fair point. Maybe the Hawke bad luck is an Amell trait, as well.”

“Or maybe the world fucking sucks, man. Horrible shit happens. None of it was _personal_. Do you know anybody with an intact family right now? What are the odds of a family full of apostates not getting fucked?

Gwen and Garrett exchanged a long look and then shrugged.  

“I’ll tell her,” I offered. “I’ll tell her I did some digging and found out she had family in Skyhold and they-“

“No, I’ll do it,” Hawke sighed. “I’ll just go and, I don’t know, ask her to overlook the blood magic thing.”

“Twitch,” Gwen prompted.

“I’ll bring the list tomorrow, Ma,” I promised, and pushed out of the chair. “Come on, serah Hawke. Lets go put your family back together.”

She waved us out of her rooms and I pulled Hawke along in my wake.

“There was fear in her eyes, Twitch,” Garrett said softly as we made our way to the infirmary, where the injured were being taken for triage. Minor injuries were seen to by the healers, and major injuries were patched up by the mages. It was a beautiful thing, magical healing. I tried to keep that in mind as I listened to the heartbreak in Hawke’s voice. “It’s been so long since I wanted somebody to accept me, to begin with, but to not get it?”

“She’s a hard read,” I tried to reassure him, but he scoffed.

“She’s a former Tranquil. She’s the definition of an easy read.”

“Let’s give it another go, then.”

The infirmary was dark and mostly empty when we arrived. Anders and Rheyna were sitting on two of the beds, facing each other, having a bit of a chat while the healer, Jamy, sat at Gwen’s desk and made notes in a log book. Another healer was working behind her, cleaning and putting away supplies.

“Rheyna!” I called, seeing her face light up as she recognized me and then falter when she saw Hawke in my wake. “Rheyna, I have the most amazing news.”

“Twitch, I do too! Anders is telling me about spirit healing, and remember what I said about Peace? The spirit who brought me out of… out of Tranquility?” Her voice dropped when she said the word, but only just. “Peace can help me heal! And he’ll keep me from being possessed! I feel so much lighter! Isn’t it wonderful?”

She slid off the bed and stepped quickly into my proffered arms for a hug. “That’s beyond wonderful. I’m really happy for you. This is exactly what you needed to hear. Is it too soon to make a _peace of mind_ joke?”

“Never too soon,” she countered happily, and pushed back out of our hug. “Now. What is your news?”

“I know your real name,” I answered, and her face went still. She wasn’t devoid of emotion – she never would be again – but her expression was stoic. Her eyes were twisted by a mix of hope and fear.

“It’s Amell,” Hawke said, softly, from behind me. “Your mother was Revka Amell, my mother’s cousin. You’re… you look just like my sister, Bethany.”

Rheyna’s lips parted as she whispered the word, _Amell_. She seemed to fumble with the information for a moment before managing a shaking breath and whispering, “I’m… I’m an Amell? I’m… I’m your cousin?”

Hawke nodded, his heart in his eyes. “You have a sister. She’s the Warden Commander of Ferelden. You had three brothers, too, but they… they didn’t make it through the war. We have an estate in High-oh!”

Rheyna threw herself at him, and Hawke barely got his arms up in time to catch her. She wrapped her arms around him in a strangling sort of hug. After a second of shock, Garrett’s eyes drifted closed and he wrapped his arms around his kinswoman. I glanced over at Anders and saw the other mage having a hard time keeping his jaw from dropping.

“I looked for you, when the Gallows fell, when I found your name in the records,” Garrett confessed. “I couldn’t find any sign of you, and I thought… so many were lost, and I assumed… I’m sorry I didn’t keep looking. I’m sorry I didn’t-“

“I have a _family_ ,” Rheyna interrupted, and Garrett’s eyes went glassy as he blinked furiously. He fought for composure and found it, swallowing thickly before managing a nod.

“You do. You have a sister, and there’s me, and my brother, and-“

“Carver!” Rheyna exclaimed, pulling back in Garrett’s arms to look into his face. “The Templar, Carver! Oh, he was _so kind_. He’s my cousin?”

Garrett looked like he wanted to say a lot of things, but managed to keep himself to just a smirk. “It’s good you think so. Yes, he’s your cousin. And then there’s Charade, she’s one of the-“

“I have a _family_ ,” Rheyna interrupted him again, pressing her face into Hawke’s chest as she started to cry. “Oh, Andraste’s Grace is really upon me. I have my magic back. I have a teacher. I have protection from demons. And I have a _family_. A family of mages and good Templars and, oh, I’m making a mess of your coat.”

Hawke laughed and squeezed her as she attempted to escape. “Please do.”

She laughed and sank into his hug. “Solona Amell is my _sister_.”

“You should meet Alistair,” I offered, and Anders and Hawke exchanged a sharp look before both nodding at me.

“Good call,” Hawke said.

“Rheyna’s going to stay in Skyhold with me and Adaar and study healing,” Anders informed Hawke as he carefully disengaged from his still-slightly-weepy cousin. “I’ll take good care of her, Garrett.”

“I know you will,” Hawke answered gamely. “We need to write Carver. He’ll be glad he was nice to you in the Gallows. It’s not often people have a favorable opinion of him. But for now, this is a conversation to include Alistair in.”

I sat down heavily on one of the empty beds as the two Amells strolled out of the infirmary arm-in-arm.

“What are the odds?” Anders quipped.

I shook my head. “I have officially learned my lesson here; the odds are always wrong. Once you get people like Gwen and Adaar and Hawke involved, all bets are off.”

“I thought you made no decisions based on wisdom?”

“Rheyna tell you I said that?”

“She did. She thought it was funny.”

“Well, don’t rat me out.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Twitch.”

I shot him a side-eye and he grinned at me. Asshole.

“So you’re setting up to teach new spirit healers here at Skyhold?”

“Something like that,” he evaded. “Gwen and I are cooking up a plot.”

“And Maker knows you’re miserable without a plot,” I countered.

“Does Gwen know about Hawke and Rheyna?”

“She does, but I should go tell her how the introduction went. I’ve got a list of names to give her, as well.”

“Names?”

“You’re not the only one miserable without a plot, Anders.”

He laughed and walked with me out of the room. We split up just outside the infirmary, but his laugh carried with me all the way back to Gwen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last couple weeks have been stupid busy, and the next couple don't promise to be much better. But! Two bits of information that might be important to you.  
> (1) I am at PAX East this weekend! I will likely be wandering around with a dude on metal legs and I may or may not be wearing one of my many nephews. COME SAY HI.  
> (2) The very next chapter here will be the end of Will to Live.


	50. All Things Being Equal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where all the cards are laid on the table, and the options are made clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really meant to post this yesterday - St Paddy's Day, which I found apropos for Mr McIntire here - but my life just took a marvelous swan dive into pure chaos and honestly I'm glad I'm getting this posted at all.  
> Thank you, again, ALL OF YOU, for the wonderful feedback and gracious comments. I adore you all.

There were a million things happening at once, all of a sudden.

Rheyna was an _Amell_ and if that didn’t change her standing in the world nothing would. She was Solona’s sister and Hawke’s cousin and the fact she wanted to be a _Charger_ made the Chief just about pop with pride. Her sister was known as _kadan_ to the Arishok for fuck’s sake; it was a good day to be the Iron Bull.

Adaar was home for one night before turning around and heading off to Val Royeaux to fetch Ambassador Montilyet. There was some gossip surrounding that, but I figured the truth was above my pay grade.

The list I brought Gwen in the meantime made her eyes sparkle. She hauled me into a meeting with Leliana and her replacement, a blonde elf who asked to be called Charter.

“Surana is in Nevarra somewhere,” she told the spies. “She’s been going by the name-“

“Ophelia Tabris,” Leliana finished. “I know. She was Solona’s dearest friend, and we met briefly in Denerim. Solona hated that she’d changed her name, but Morrigan was strangely appreciative of the gesture.”

“Senna Tabris is yet in Denerim, did you meet her too?” Gwen asked, continuing down the list. Leliana nodded, and Gwen put a quick check mark by Senna’s name.

“Durin Aeducan was formerly in-“

“Gorim Saelac’s employ,” Leliana interrupted again. “He’s now Warden Aeducan. He’s…. with Solona. That’s all the more Alistair would tell me.”

Gwen blinked at Leliana slowly. “He Joined?”

Leliana nodded. “He did. Fairly recently, too.”

“Huh.” Gwen blinked again and then put a check mark next to his name. “I asked Merrill about the history of her eluvian, so I know the Mahariel origin didn’t survive.”

“The… what?” Charter asked.

“There are seven people who could have become the Hero of Ferelden,” Gwen replied. “Surana, Amell, Tabris, Cousland, Brosca, Aeducan, and Mahariel.” She made tick marks by her list as she spoke. “The person who rose to become the Hero of Ferelden was determined largely by where Warden Commander Duncan chose to go on his final recruiting mission. Mahariel was infected by the blight and could only survive with the help of a Warden, and since Duncan didn’t seek the Dalish, she didn’t make it. The rest, though, we can find. They’re strong – strong enough to stop the Blight like Solona did – and they’re completely under the radar. Solas will have no idea who they are.”

Leliana seemed to swallow the concept easily. “I can see why; that's quite the list of names. Cousland is an easy one – he’s the Arl of Denerim now – and Rian Brosca is running with the Carta in Ostwick. We pulled her out of a cell in Orzammar where she'd been left to rot.”

It was Gwen’s turn to be startled, although admittedly I was taken aback as well.

“Not Cadash Carta, perchance?”

Leliana tilted her head in surprise. “Yes, actually. She's at the right hand of Edric Cadash. I had my eye on another one of his, but she slipped my grasp in Kirkwall and went back to Ostwick.”

Gwen leaned back in her chair. “I’m going to give you three names and I want you to tell me if any of them were at the Conclave when it went up, and if not, what you know about them.”

Leliana tented her fingers together and regarded Gwen with one raised eyebrow. “Go ahead.”

“Cadash.”

“No. Oddly, they were the only Carta not represented. The lyrium trade was guaranteed to be altered by the decision of the Conclave, and all the major clans were thought to be skulking around. However, no sign of Cadash turned up, and none of their members have fallen out of sight since the Breach opened, verifying that none were sent to the Conclave.”

Gwen shot me a look. “Like they’d been tipped off not to go.”

“I've got friends in Ostwick," I reminded her. "It is entirely possible they passed my warning about Haven on to Cadash."

Gwen shrugged. “Sure seems that way. Alright, Leliana. Lavellan.”

Leliana wasn’t bothering to hide her surprise. “Yes, actually. Well, sort of. Their First arrived after the explosion. She interacted briefly with our scouts and then left to report back to Wycome. I got the distinct impression she was quite pleased to be running late, for the first time in her life.”

“Good time to get lucky,” Charter quipped, although my suspension of disbelief was drawing thin.

“And is clan Lavellan intact?”

“There was some incident with the Duke of Wycome, but I hear that was resolved with only a little bloodshed on the Duke’s part. To the best of my knowledge, the clan is still in the Free Marches.”

“Last name. Trevelyan.”

Leliana smiled slyly at Gwen. “I have been told that at least one Trevelyan was at the Conclave. There was also one at the Ostwick Circle as a Templar, and another at that same Circle as a mage. There are two brothers at home in Ostwick with Bann Trevelyan, a sister who was married off to a minor house in Starkhaven, and another sister who was last in the employ of Edric Cadash. She’s the one I was attempting to enlist into the Inquisition when she dodged me in Kirkwall.”

“She’s the one we want, then,” Gwen decided, with a flash of blue appearing briefly around her eyes. “The First of Lavellan if you can find her. This Edric Cadash. Whatever Trevelyan was enough of a scapegrace to draw your eye. Rian Brosca. Senna Tabris. Kaiopi Surana. The Wardens Aeducan and Amell. And, if at all possible, I would love a conversation with Arl Cousland.”

We disbanded, then, with the three women heading to the war room to place markers on the map table and start the wheels rolling, and I marched back to the Charger bunkhouse. My part in the deal was done – I’d told Gwen all I knew about the people she wanted, and now she was going to find Ophelia for me. The worst of the waiting was over.

It was a few days before the party started, but once it did there was no escaping it. The army reduced their patrols – we’d won the war, after all – and the Chargers went on hiatus. Sera was the worst instigator ever, and generally speaking I was happy to be dragged along into whatever shit she was stirring up.

A few weeks after the Inquisitor came back from Val Royeaux, Ambassador Montilyet threw a formal party celebrating the Inquisition victory. The sheer number of nobles who flooded Skyhold was a bit sickening, and it absolutely killed the mood.

“Fuck that,” Gwen said when I explained to her why the jovial atmosphere had died. “You’re all invited and you’re all coming. No argument.”

“We were at Halamshiral,” Meck reminded her. “Ain’t no room for the likes of us at a party like that.”

“Fuck that,” Gwen reiterated. “You’re going to come and you’re going to dance with me and that’s that.”

“I’m going to- what?” Meck laughed.

Gwen just nodded. “Don’t wear anything special. Just be clean.”

“She’s serious?” he said into the silence that fell when she left the bunk room.

“Yep,” I answered. “Better take a bath.”

Gwen apparently had made the rounds of the keep that day, and dragged everyone she knew into the party in the main hall that night. Lyal was there, along with nearly half her scouts and a good chunk of Cullen’s officers and veteran soldiers. All of Adaar’s team was present, of course, but so were all of Gwen’s healers, and of course all of the Chargers.

“I got all of the phones charged,” she whispered to me as I was taking my first drink of beer, and I nearly choked when her words sunk in. "You're going to love the audio set-up Dagna and I rigged."

“We’re actually crashing Josephine’s party?”

“We are _so_ crashing this party,” she agreed, putting out her hand to me. I set my beer on the bar and led her lead me away.

There was no formal dancing set up here, not like there had been at Halamshiral, but a small orchestra was perched in the loft where Madame de Fer usually lurked and was playing the sort of polite background music one expected at formal events. Gwen fit in with the tone of the evening, resplendent in a form-fitting coppery confection that seemed to expose everything and nothing all at once.

“What the hell are you even wearing?” I asked as she led me through the crowd to the round antechamber that had been Solas’ haunt.

“It’s from the night Hellen wouldn’t let me go to the ball at Halamshiral,” Gwen replied. “I promised her I would wear it tonight.”

“You look fantastic,” I told her honestly, and she grinned at me.

“Thanks.”

“Thedas looks good on you.”

She blushed but her smile didn’t waver. “That… actually means a lot, from you. Thank you. Thedas looks good on you, too.”

“Nah, you never saw me in a tux. I made Earth look _good_.”

She snorted a laugh and led me to a strange contraption on a little stand against one wall.

“Dagna made this. If we put our phones here-“ she matched action to words, setting her phone on a little stand in the middle of a curved bit of …glass? metal? “-it will amplify the music and minimize distortion. It’s the best we can do with shitty cell phone speakers, until I stumble across a Bluetooth speaker or dock or something. Somebody had to have brought a decent speaker to Thedas.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I sure try. Here, you can have first pick. What would you like to hear?”

There was no one in this room, yet. I could see a few faces over the railing in the library above us, and there was a continuous, susurrus rustling of raven’s wings in the deepening dark at the top of the tower. I made a show of spinning Gwen, considering the limitations of her dress.

“It’s been awhile, but I’m pretty sure I remember all the steps. You ever swing dance?”

She went beet red again, and then burst out laughing. “Oh, man. There's a memory best left forgotten. Not since high school; It’s been over a decade. Everybody started learning again when I was a senior and since I was _everybody’s_ piano accompanist they had me learn _so much crap_ and eventually I started dancing, too, just so they’d stop asking me to learn some other awful song. But I was always terrible because I was so clutzy but here I can just will myself to follow so if you really wanted to-“

“Easy, killer,” I laughed. “Quick refresher, since it’s been a decade for us both, and then we’ll see if we wanna bust this out at Skyhold.”

Gwen danced a few steps out into the middle of the room and lifted the hem of her dress to reveal the black-and-white shoes she was wearing. “I am so ready for this.”

In ten minute’s time, we were both red-faced and laughing, and a crowd was forming along the walls. We had just decided to call the whole thing off when Krem stormed in.

“No. No. Just no. You’re not stopping now. Load up the song, I’ll start it for you. You’re not getting out of this.”

“Krem! Lieut, no, we’re just-“

“What song?”

Gwen wrapped her arms around her waist and laughed as I tried to get the phone out of Krem’s hands. “For fuck’s sake, Krem, I’ll play you something better, we were just seeing if we remembered the steps.”

“What. Song. Twitch.”

I met his eyes for the span of three breaths, and then gestured for him to angle the screen towards me.

We’d created a monster.

“Put it back on the little stand and hit the triangle,” I told him. “The set up over there is supposed to amplify the music.”

He shot me another dirty look – probably for not treating him to amplified music before now, I couldn’t win for losing – and then gestured for me to go back to where Gwen was standing.

“I guess we’re doing this,” Gwen laughed.

“I guess we are,” I replied, and put my hands out to her.

It was messy. And unrefined. And we wouldn’t have won any awards anywhere. But Krem started up _Jump Jive An’ Wail_ and Gwen and I danced our way through it. We had to stop twice as first Gwen and then I lost our reserve and started laughing too hard to continue, but Krem threatened to pause the music and we dove back in.

“Permission to stand down, Lieut?” I gasped as the music faded.

“You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?” he answered, shaking his head. “Why don’t you just give me this damn thing and let me listen to everything on it?”

“Fine! Take it! And when you break it and we don’t have any music ever again you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

“Children! Children!” Gwen laughed, stepping between us and taking both our elbows. “Why don’t we just play all of it _now_?”

“Thanks, Ma,” Krem and I answered together.

We didn’t quite get through the entire library, since Gwen didn’t think Tool was proper for the occasion and once she’d danced with me, the floodgates opened. She danced with everyone who was willing to come ask for a turn. Eleanor, her chief surgeon, was near the front of the line, and Gwen picked out a song for everyone. I could tell a lot about Gwen’s friendships from what she picked.

When Cullen made an appearance – in a formal coat of a cut and color to match Gwen’s dress – he got bumped immediately to the top of the queue.

“I’ve got this one,” I told Gwen as she seemed torn between options. “Go. Scoot.”

She smiled and stepped out into the middle of the room to take Cullen’s hand as I dug into Jacquelyn’s phone for the song I knew had to be there.

I wasn’t wrong. She had the album I wanted near the top of her favorites list; her music choice had always struck me as similar to Cindy’s, and I couldn’t help but laugh at how much Gwen had disliked most of what she’d found here. This time, though, I was sure I was making the right choice. I started up _Tenerife Sea_ and stood back to admire my own handiwork.

Two lines in, Cullen turned startled eyes to me, which softened with gratitude. I tipped an imaginary hat to him, and he turned his attention back to the woman in his arms.

“You’re my favorite son of a bitch,” Krem amended, as he leaned on the wall beside me.

“My mother was a lovely lady,” I countered, and he laughed.

“You’re leaving us, aren’t you?” He asked, as we watched Cullen watch Gwen.

“We’ll see,” I answered. I leaned over and nudged his shoulder with mine.

“You might spend the rest of your life chasing Opie.”

“I might.”

He rolled his eyes at me, but I could see the smile lurking. “Don’t listen to the Chief. You’ll always be a Charger. If she ditches you again and you need someplace to land, there’ll be a spot for Twitch in the Chargers for as long as there are Chargers.”

“If she doesn’t ditch me, is there room for Opie in the Chargers?”

Krem coughed a laugh. “With the look the Chief got when you rolled into camp and she read him the riot act? Yeah. We’d keep her.”

I nodded as he leaned over and returned the nudge. “She didn’t want to stay in the Chargers before, though,” he reminded me.

“No. She didn’t. And if she goes home, back to Denerim? There would be a place in Denerim if you ever get too old for this shit and need a place to retire.”

“Thanks, Twitch. I might like to be old uncle Krem. We’ll see if any of us live that long.”

“We can only hope, Krem. We can only hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this portion of the tale, but as well you know there is more to tell!  
> Twitch's story continues in Steel Your Heart, where the hunt for Ophelia picks up steam as Gwen looks for allies and fights to keep them hidden from spies in the Inquisition.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Legends: Of the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811525) by [Eisen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen)




End file.
